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THE WHIRLIGIG 



MAYNE LINDSAY 

n 

AUTHOR OF 

“the valley of sapphires” 


LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 

91 and 93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 
LONDON AND BOMBAY 


X901 


THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 
Two Copies Received 


MAR. 8 1901 



CLASS^XXc. N*. 


COPY B. 


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Copyright, 1901, by 

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 

All rights reserved' 


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THE CAXTON PRESS 
NEW YORK. 


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CONTENTS 


CHAP. PAGE 

I. MR. BOTHFIELD BEGINS TO TAKE AN INTEREST I 

II. THE TRIAL OF GOTTFRIED VON INCKE . . 1 9 

III. CAPTAIN COSSEBAUDE’S EVENING DRIVE . . 38 

IV. MR. BOTHFIELD REGAINS HIS LIBERTY — . . 58 

V. — AND MAKES SOME USE OF IT 78 

VI. THE GREY OVERCOAT 102 

VII. THREE DOORS AND THE COUNT GOTTFRIED 

VON INCKE 128 

VIII. IN THE enemy’s COUNTRY 1 50 

IX. A LIGHT UPON HIDDEN THINGS 1 72 

X. THE WORLD OUTSIDE I94 

XL BEHIND STONE WALLS 2 l 8 

XII. CLEAR SHINING AFTER RAIN 242 

XIII. THE PRINCE 262 



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THE WHIRLIGIG 


CHAPTER I 

MR. BOTHFIELD BEGINS TO TAKE AN INTEREST 

Francis Bothfield, Esquire, was at great pains 
to convince people that he was an Englishman. 
They often remained sceptical to the end; and, in- 
deed, a man who has been born in Paris, breeched 
in Vienna, educated at Gottingen, and domiciled, 
for varying periods, in half the cities of Europe, 
is unlikely to retain the insular characteristics. 
There was not in Mr. Bothfield the John-Bullish- 
ness which the Continent, at any rate, considers a 
part of British nature ; there was no beefy exterior, 
no robust contempt of foreigners, no hectoring dis- 
play of ignorance. It is sad to confess that these 
failings make up the Englishman to the men of 
other nations: we may at least take credit to our- 
selves that one member of the race lacked them al- 
together. He had lost them, perhaps, in the course 


2 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


of his cosmopolitan existence — possibly he had 
never found occasion to unpack them, as it were, 
from his trim valise. And in leaving them among 
the camphor he had, perforce, to leave too a certain 
positive virility upon which we barbarians have 
better cause to pride ourselves. Bothfield at five- 
and- forty was a frog of a man ; clammy to the touch, 
and uninteresting. He was still a wanderer among 
the civilized places of the earth ; blessed with a gen- 
teel sufficiency; a dabbler in the arts; negatively 
entertained by his fellow-men, and rarely pricked 
enough by their contact to be cynical. 

It was Mr. Bothfield’s misfortune that he had 
not run amok among the passions ; that he had been 
too trained to well-bred indifference to feel hatred; 
too pacific to understand a quarrel; too daintily 
nurtured to be gross. As to love, which most of 
us would fain believe, at least once in a lifetime, 
to be the pivot upon which this mortal whirligig 
revolves, Mr. Bothfield knew no more of it than as 
a lukewarm emotion engendered — for half-an-hour 
— of a tempestuous petticoat, a bubble of laughter, 
or the flutter of a fan. He took life with the im- 
perturbability of a man who has seen it spectator- 
wise, and tasted it never. 

By all the fitness of things, Bothfield was born 


BOTHFIELD TAKES AN INTEREST 


3, 


for that neutral-tinted existence into which he has 
now retired: it was an ironical fate that gave him 
to those upper-class gipsies, his parents, and it was 
certainly a grotesque conception of the powers that 
be that pitchforked him into the turmoil of one of 
the most mediaeval intrigues that has stirred to life 
in nineteenth century Europe. Though, to be sure, 
the immediate cause was the sublime faith in his 
own impregnable indifference to convulsions, social, 
moral, or political, that led him over the borders of 
Amalia at the hour of Gottfried von Incke’s arrest 
and trial. The collision that ensued, which is the 
subject matter of this narrative, completed, as will 
be seen, a neglected education. 

The Central Europe Express disgorged its pas- 
sengers in the western station at Amaro just as a 
winter sun was about to rise over the little gilded 
capital. Bothfield, who had tumbled, half-awake, 
out of a coupe lit, found himself blinking at the 
rivalry of the electric lights and the dawn as his 
cab rattled across the cobblestoned streets, and 
dreamily figuring to himself the hash an impres- 
sionist would make of the cold, clear sky with its 
vanishing stars, as contrasted with those pinpoints 
of white fire below. He had come to Amalia in 


4 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


response lo a whim, which impelled him to revisit 
its picture gallery — ^travellers will remember the 
medley of priceless old masters and lifeless new 
ones. The fancy had seized him in Rome, and he 
had bowed to its ruling, tolerantly, and followed it 
northward, and eastward, to the Principality. He 
wondered, in the face of that chilling dawn, if it 
had been worth while to experience so much dis- 
comfort for a very doubtful pleasure, and then he 
reproved himself for letting the thought of pleasure 
rub shoulders with that of art, with complete un- 
consciousness of adopting, for once, a truly British 
attitude. If it was a question of being bored, well, 
what matter ? He was generally bored. 

The cab jolted on, and Bothfield looked sleepily 
out at the streets, and was puzzled by the presence 
of little knots of people that buzzed everywhere, 
and particularly around the newspaper kiosks, which 
showed signs of early opening. He felt that the 
breathlessness which is usual in a city before sun- 
rise, the pause between the gaieties and the tragedies 
of the night, and the business of the day, was being 
in some way disturbed by the march of events. 
There was a whisper of expectation under the lime- 
trees that bordered the grey streets, and there was 
an excitement that showed itself in peering faces. 


BOTHFIELD TAKES AN INTEREST 


5 


in half opened doors and shutters, and in gossipping 
milk-women, as the cab passed by. 

The reason was brought home to him when the 
porter of the Hotel Bellevue shook his head and 
shrugged his shoulders at his demand for room and 
breakfast. The Incke trial was to begin at ten 
o’clock and the hotel was filled — chartered bodily, 
like enough, the porter said — by lawyers, witnesses, 
and partisans of the Government in the great case 
of Ferdinand II. v. Gottfried von Incke. It was 
impossible for the gentleman to be given shelter. 
He regretted it profoundly, but 

After all, a man of intelligence does not permit 
himself to be cosmopolitan for nothing. Bothfield 
was conservative in his attachments; and among 
them he numbered an affection for the Bellevue’s 
cook, which rose, in the face of opposition, to an 
inordinate heat. There was nobody in all Amaro 
who could cook macaroni ati parmesan but this chef, 
and he longed, suddenly, for macaroni au parmesan 
with the yearning of a lover for his mistress. He 
waved the porter aside, and demanded audience of 
the manager in an inner chamber. It was granted; 
and he disappeared from view. 

Ten minutes later Bothfield and the manager 
re-emerged, animated by a mutual appreciation, and 


6 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


exchanged cigars in the vestibule, while Mr. Both- 
field’s baggage departed swiftly to an apartment 
on the first floor. Its owner chatted with the af- 
fable manager, compared notes of mutual acquaint- 
ance and the service of trains, and then followed 
his trunks in satisfaction. Political trials might 
disquiet the multitude : that was no reason why they 
should incommode a peaceful traveller. 

The sunrise had begun to smoke and blaze when 
Bothfield entered his room, and he did not respond 
to the invitation of the snowy bed in the alcove. 
He washed off the dust of the night, changed, and 
made a light breakfast. After which he lit the 
manager's cigar, and snuggled into a fur coat, to 
enjoy the breezes of morning from the balcony. 

The Hotel Bellevue stands high, and Amaro 
is spread in panorama about it. She is a very 
decorous city to the eye, so decorous as to look 
hypocritical to those who know her character as a 
Rauhritternest, a stronghold of bullying free-lances, 
through the Middle Ages. But Amaro has long 
since put her ancient sins behind her, and said con- 
fession, and built a university and a museum upon 
the site of the old fortifications. Moreover, her 
princes no longer run away with fat Barons, or 
practice dentistry upon passing Jews, and they are 


BOTHFIELD TAKES AN INTEREST 


7 


at least as moral as any other petty European auto- 
crats. Bothfield looked out upon the trees of the 
Summer Gardens, and the stately facade of the 
palace, the equestrian statues of Amalian warriors, 
and the rays of tree-lined boulevards that spread, 
spoke- wise, to all the points of the compass. The 
Royal Standard drooped upon the palace roof; a 
green-coated sentry could be dimly seen pacing be- 
fore the gates; later on, when the lime-trees were 
in leaf, he would be hidden by them. There was al- 
ready a touch of spring in the air, and the singing 
of birds struck more keenly upon Bothfield’s ear 
than the hum of the city. He forgot the possibili- 
ties of turmoil below, the traitor who was awaiting 
trial somewhere in the hurly-burly, the Prince who 
was, perhaps, just then waking to busy day inside 
the grey walls yonder; and he smoked and medi- 
tated, leaning upon the balcony-rail, at peace with 
all mankind. 

His profile was projected beyond the iron screen 
that shut one room’s verandah space from another, 
and if he had turned his head he might have seen 
faces in the next balcony: faces that peered at his, 
shot out like tortoise-heads, and withdrew. As it 
was he heard scraps of conversation, that fell mean- 
ingless upon his ears. 


8 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


“ It all depends upon the result, and, my faith, 
you know there is not a scrap of written evidence.” 

“ Then the Prince ” The voice sank to a 

whisper, and droned on till another broke upon it. 

“ That’s of no consequence, now. We can put 
them off so easily with this — this miracle.” 

“ Tut, tut, dear Count. Your scheme is a wild 
one. The instrument may not be ready; he may 
kick, squeal — anything.” 

“Trust the Count: he could persuade the devil 
himself to dance to his piping. Let us go and in- 
quire of Manager Breslauer.” 

“ As you will. But mind. Captain, no violence ! ” 

There followed a laugh, some further murmur- 
ings, and finally the tramp of departing feet. Both- 
field had no mind for eavesdropping, and he was 
glad when the talkers were gone, for he suspected 
they did not guess the acoustic properties of the 
verandah. Their conversation had been unintelli- 
gible, and he smoked on, while the sun chased the 
last flying shadow from the room behind him. A 
knock at the door ended his meditations abruptly. 

“ Permit me ! ” said the manager’s agitated voice 
from the passage. 

Bothfield threw open the door. The suave per- 
sonage with whom he had hobnobbed had disap- 


BOTHFIELD TAKES AN INTEREST 


9 


peared; in his stead there was a scared, obsequious, 
hand-rubbing individual who bowed, and wriggled, 
and introduced three Amalian gentlemen to the 
visitor’s notice. 

“ Permit me. Excellency ! I have the honour to 
introduce to Mr. Bothfield of London, the most 
illustrious Count Merkewitz, the honourable Herr 
Holseg, and Captain-of-Police Cossebaude.” 

The Captain, who brought up the rear of the 
procession, shut the door as he bowed to Bothfield, 
and left the introducer discourteously on the wrong 
side of it. He was a big, burly man, and Bothfield 
noticed that he leaned his back against the panels 
and folded his arms, in a pugnacious way. Appar- 
ently the Count noticed it too, for he included the 
officer in the arm-sweep with which he prefaced 
his opening words. 

“ Mr. Bothfield will pardon an intrusion, and 
permit us to seat ourselves in his apartment? It is 
an early hour for a call, but — Cossebaude, dear 
friend, Mr. Bothfield is so exceedingly kind as to 
request that you should take a chair.” 

The trio seated themselves. Count Merkewitz 
was a small, grey-headed person, with a face like 
a fox, and the ribbon of the Order of the Amalian 
Sun in his button-hole. Holseg was black-bearded ; 


lO 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


a man with a cold eye, and a large circumference. 
He might have passed for a retired butcher, but 
Bothfield, turning an anxious face from one to an- 
other, thought that he had seen him before in some 
position of authority. He was unable, however, to 
recall him, and courtesy demanded immediate speech. 

“ I am highly honoured by this visit, gentlemen. 
May I ask to what I am indebted for the favour ? ” 

“ The favour is ours,” said the Count, automatic- 
ally. “ It emboldens us to ask a further one.” 

“ And that is ? ” 

“ I have the privilege to be one of his Royal 
Highness’ legal advisers in the case that is to be 
tried to-day. Herr Holseg, here, is the Chief of 
City Police, and he has been able to arrange that 
his Highness’ witnesses and advocates should have 
exclusive possession of the Hotel Bellevue for the 
time. Mr. Bothfield was, perhaps, not aware of 
the fact ? ” 

Bothfield stared at the bland glance that met his ; 
and felt himself a barbarian instantly. The tone 
was mild, the accent low and level, but a subtle in- 
flection told him that he was — in the opinion of 
these attentive, polite gentlemen, — no better than a 
Cook’s tourist, synonym to our traveller of all that 
was blatant and intrusive. He saw the predica- 


BOTHFIELD TAKES AN INTEREST 


II 


ment in which he was placed, and the awkward 
position into which he had plunged himself, un- 
thinkingly. For what? On the instant he con- 
ceived a lasting distaste for macaroni an parmesan, 

I — I — I am sure I very sincerely beg your par- 
don,’’ he stammered. The truth is, I was told of 
the fact, and I considered it a — well, I did not con- 
sider it sufficiently. This Bellevue had sheltered me 
so often that In truth I am exceedingly sorry.” 

The Count turned a triumphant countenance to 
the others. 

It is as I said, you see,” he announced. Mr. 
Bothfield had no intention of intruding upon his 
Highness’ favours. It was merely the natural dis- 
taste of the brave Englishman to be foregone his 

right, not ? Oh, observe, gentlemen! Mr. 

Bothfield represents an enterprising nation.” 

A poor representative, I am afraid,” mumbled 
Bothfield, to whom the keynote of the Count’s ad- 
dress was a little indistinct. He suspected satire, 
but the face before him had a glow of appreciation, 
and he felt assured. There was a magnificent wave 
of the hand in answer to his interpolation. 

Pardon me, but no ! A gentleman of cosmo- 
politan culture, of English birth — is there a more 
enviable being? It simplifies our difficulty — the 


12 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


one rising from the delicate situation — so as to 
render it no difficulty at all. For surely, we can 
count upon your assistance.’’ 

I don’t understand,” said Bothfield. Let me 
throw myself upon your kindness, and request per- 
mission for the porter to remove my boxes.” 

I protest, — my good sir, I protest ! It is through 
an inadvertence that you have become one of his 
Highness’ guests; I, on behalf of his Highness, as 
his unworthy deputy, am enraptured of the oppor- 
tunity it offers me.” 

'' Tut, tut! ” said Holseg, and Bothfield knew be- 
yond doubt that the speakers of the conversation in 
the verandah were before him. Tut, tut, dear 
Count! It is, I fear, less of an opportunity than a 
situation.” 

An awkward situation,” blurted out Captain 
Cossebaude gruffly. 

The Count silenced them with a look. 

situation — awkward?” queried he. “By 
no means. Mr. Bothfield will, of course, under- 
stand the need for er — diplomatic action.” 

“ Indeed, I understand very little at present. I 
know that I have trespassed upon his Highness’ 
domains, possibly infringed some more important 
code than that of etiquette; all that now remains 


BOTHFIELD TAKES AN INTEREST 


13 


for me is, with your permission, to remove my- 
self.” 

“ Fortunately by misfortune, if I may so para- 
doxically express myself,” said Merkewitz, with a 
bland smile ; “ the permission is not with us to 
grant. You have unwittingly identified yourself 
with his Highness’ party. There is at present a 
very strong feeling in the town, and — ^but you know 
all the details of the recent terrible scandal ? ” 

“ No. You will scarcely credit it, perhaps, but 
I came to Amaro with hardly an echo of the name 
of Incke in my ears. I know, of course, that he is 
to be tried ” 

“ Oh, yes, yes. You find it difficult to realize 
the significance to us of our poor affairs, not? 
But they are, unhappily, only too pressing here to- 
day. The populace, thick-headed numbskull, is in- 
clined to sympathize with Incke as opposed to his 
Highness.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Bothfield, with astonishment. 
“ I have read very little about the matter, beyond 
that there is a Count Incke who is accused of treason 
and suspected of other political sins, but I under- 
stood that there was an intense loyal excitement in 
Amalia.” 

“ In the provinces, yes. But here — well, the De- 


14 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


partment of which Herr Holseg is Chief, knows 
where its trouble lies to-day. The protection of 
the community within the walls of Bellevue in which 
you are now numbered, will be among its duties, 
for the loyalty of our party constitutes its hourly 
danger in the open streets. It is especially enjoined 
upon us to avoid opportunity for friction ; otherwise, 
we of the Prince’s service fear nothing from the 
canaille. But it is an express command, and now 
that you have identified yourself with our little 
band, you will see, Mr. Bothfield, that your return 
to neutral ground becomes a delicate matter.” 

''But I am not known.” Bothfield was not 
anxious to take up the burden of Amalian politics. 
" Surely I have only to go to another hotel, and 
the affair will be at an end. I am a stranger, an 
alien.” 

"Just so.” The Count nodded. "There, dear 
sir, is the difficulty. The mob is very suspicious 
of strangers. It has the vileness to fancy that the 
Prince could stoop to the use of informers, — for- 
eign spies, even, — to unearth the details of Incke’s 
sedition. I need not say the circumstances are far 
otherwise; but so it is believed. Consider, there- 
fore, the seriousness of an assault upon your per- 
son. Setting aside the risk to your illustrious self, 


BOTHFIELD TAKES AN INTEREST 


15 


you will conceive how damaging a circumstance 
would be the report that a suspected foreigner, for 
whose identity there is no one in the city to vouch, 
had been brought to book by the rough and ready 
justice of the streets. Picture to yourself the in- 
flammation of the public mind, and the possible de- 
plorable consequences that would ensue.’’ 

The long and the short of it is,” said Holseg, 
his cold eye upon the perturbed Bothfield, you 
must now consider yourself as one of us, and act 
accordingly, abiding by the instruction of my De- 
partment, and the order of the State. It is all that 
there is to be said.” 

Bothfield looked from one to the other. He be- 
gan to see that the significance of this early call 
had in it a reserve of something unpleasant and in- 
convenient for him. He was still in semi-darkness 
and he waited for light, with his hands deep in his 
fur-lined pockets. 

I am, then, to consider myself under arrest?” 
he queried. 

Oh, my very gracious sir, no ! ” expostulated 
Merkewitz. It is only begged of you that you 
will keep within call of a — a guardian, till further 
notice, that you will continue to accept his High- 
ness’ favour in this charming apartment, and that 


i6 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


you will forgive our unwarrantable intrusion upon 
your privacy. I have introduced to you Captain 
Cossebaude. You will find in him a safe conduct 
through the menaces of an eventful day.’’ 

He rose, and made as though he would retire, 
looking from Cossebaude to the Englishman as if 
he had united them by his benevolence in a bond of 
mutual affection. It was at this moment that a 
hardly perceptible smile glimmered across Holseg’s 
cold countenance, and Cossebaude found occasion 
to stare at the ceiling with an appearance of loutish 
indifference. Bothfield, in spite of the Count’s ex- 
planation, felt a sense of mystification that was, for 
some unacknowledged reason, stronger than he 
could define. He had a momentary vision of a 
puppet-show he had once seen, where the wire- 
puller had borne a fanciful likeness to the Count 
Merkewitz, and where the dolls were at least as 
stiff-jointed as himself and his other new-made 
acquaintances. 

Holseg’s bow followed the Count’s, and they left 
the room together. Cossebaude remained, heaving 
himself awkwardly out of his chair, and fingering 
his moustache as he eyed his companion. It was 
evidently in the bond that he was to mount a close 
guard, and it was equally evident that he had every 


BOTHFIELD TAKES AN INTEREST 


17 


intention of obeying his instructions to the letter. 
Bothfield made a dash at conversation, to break the 
silence. 

Well, Captain ! ’’ he said, with an attempt at 
jocularity. It seems we are to be stable com- 
panions to-day. I bow to the ruling, if I cannot 
altogether see its necessity.” 

It does not much matter whether you see it or 
whether you don’t,” commented Cossebaude gruffly. 

You can leave the reasons for it to us.” Then, 
as if conscious that his manner were offensive, and 
not unwilling to mend it a little — Since we have 
to be together, suppose we make the best of it. 
There’s no need to stay stewing in this one room 
all the time. What do you say to breakfasting below 
in a private apartment, and then driving over to the 
Palais de Justice? I have a pass to the police gallery, 
and there is the great trial to be seen. Hey? ” 

'' But — ^but I thought it was in the open streets 
that the danger lay,” said Bothfield, astounded at 
the suggestion. Surely to drive across them ” 

There are such things as closed carriages,” said 
the Captain. '' Of course if you’re afraid we will 
stop here.” 

The suggestion was probably intended to settle 
the question; which it did, effectually. 


i8 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


“ It is not by my wish that I am the object of so 
much solicitude,” said Bothfield, with dignity. “ By 
all means, Captain, let us go to breakfast, and see 
what is to be seen after.” Then, with involuntary 
regretful ejaculation — “Ah, my picture gallery!” 

He descended the stairs, wrapped in meditation, 
and behind him stalked the tall Captain, with creak 
of boot and clank of scabbard. 


CHAPTER II 


THE TRIAL OF GOTTFRIED VON INCKE 

It was five minutes before ten when a closed 
carriage with shuttered blinds drew up at the en- 
trance to the Hotel Bellevue, and the little crowd 
of onlookers on the pavement was hustled back 
from its vicinity by the policemen on duty. The 
spectators, indeed, caught hardly a glimpse of its 
occupants as the door slammed ; and Bothfield, who 
had been propelled with amazing speed across the 
flags, found leisure to draw a breath and rub his 
arm, which was smarting under the reminiscence 
of Cossebaude’s grip. 

'' Well ! I don’t suppose anybody had time to 
make out my features then. Captain,” he said, still 
rubbing. You understand dispatch.” 

Captain Cossebaude had thawed under the in- 
fluence of an excellent breakfast, a bottle of Marco- 
brunner, and one of Bothfield’s Havanas. He had 
become less of the boor, and more of the officer; 
it was possible that he was in a state of admiration 
of his own affability. He and Bothfield had es- 
chewed politics across the table; they had talked, 
19 


20 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


on the contrary, of Vienna, where the Captain had 
once spent a delirous week, and for which, as a 
topic, if their amusements had not been equally 
decorous, they found, at least, a common fund of 
appreciation. Bothfield’s understanding of the sit- 
uation into which he had been pitchforked was no 
less obscure, but the edge of his annoyance had 
been softened, even as Cossebaude mellowed. 

Yes, I think we did that quickly enough to 
satisfy Merkewitz,’’ said the Captain. He leaned 
back in the coupe at ease, but Bothfield saw him 
block a too-open chink with his hand as they rolled 
on. He could, however, see through the Venetians 
that they were passing along a boulevard, the edges 
of which were thronged with faces that flickered 
into curiosity as the carriage passed, and whose lips 
bubbled with a thousand conjectures and comments. 
At intervals came a knot of policemen, and then a 
handful of lancers clanked slowly down the high- 
way; and here and there a boy in the background 
bobbed a face among the branches of the limes that 
bordered the scene, or piped in a shrill treble above 
the' voice of the crowd. Bothfield’s sluggishness 
began to diminish. 

“ H’m ! There seems to be some popular ex- 
citement,’^ he said. 


TRIAL OF GOTTFRIED VON INCKE 


21 


There has been no sensation to equal it in 
Amaro for years/’ said Cossebaude. The carriage 
stopped, blocked by a counter stream of traffic. He 
stuffed the chink with his handkerchief, and ac- 
cepted a second cigar. 

''What is it all about?” yawned Bothfield. 
" There is a glimmer in my mind of the matter, but 
I certainly did not realise the stir I should find on 
my arrival. The details are ? ” 

" Himmel Sapperment ! Do you really mean 
you came to Amaro in ignorance? To be sure you 
could not gather much from our newspapers — we 
don’t approve of people with pens in Amalia — ^but 
I understood that the Continental press generally 
has not been so discreet.” 

" Bah ! ” said Bothfield. I don’t read news- 
papers. Politics and police courts were never to 
my taste, and what does it matter to me what hap- 
pens to-day? ” 

" It looks as if it might matter very much indeed,” 
said Cossebaude with a chuckle. Then he became 
grave again. " This Incke intrigue, now, is the 
deuce of a business. Since you wish to hear, and 
we seem to be blocked for the minute, I will give 
you an outline. 

" Count Gottfried von Incke belongs to one of 


22 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


the very oldest families in the Principality. One 
of its privileges has always been to supply a page 
to the Royal household, and Gottfried von Incke 
took office as soon as he could walk. He grew up 
in the palace, side by side with the heir apparent, 
who is now the ruling Prince. Then he was at- 
tached to the Prince’s suite, because they were close 
friends through their boyhood, and nobody thought 
there could be a fitter companion for the Prince 
than a young Incke. They sowed their wild oats 
together, but — it is not remarkable for our princes 
to plant out a crop of that nature. Prince Ferdi- 
nand’s harvest, though, has been supposed to cover 
a good many acres in excess of the liberal allowance 
that is winked at for Royal blood. And Gottfried 
von Incke ploughed the furrows. 

All this is dated some years back, and I would 
caution you that I am speaking unofficially.” The 
mask of the policeman snapped down, for an in- 
stant, upon the softer countenance that had been 
born of the Marcobrunner. 

Bothfield nodded. He was listening with a 
shade less of his usual listless manner. For once 
he found himself entangled in an affair, and the 
circumstance was sufficiently unusual to this un- 
attached nomad to cause a fluttering of interest. 


TRIAL OF GOTTFRIED VON INCKE 


23 


“ Two years ago Prince Ferdinand married the 
Princess Ottilie Marie Brtinnhild Dorothea Luise 
Hildegard of Ottolini-Gutemberg. They say that 
her Royal Highness did not care for the Count of 
Incke ; they say that she cared too much ; we police- 
men see too much of the trouble it breeds. But 
after the Royal marriage the Count Gottfried went 
no more to the Palace, and at last it was observed 
that the Prince gave him the go-by publicly. More 
— he was passed over in his regiment, which is 
equivalent to requesting an officer to resign the 
service. And he did resign, accordingly. 

“ It was not long after this that a foreign power 
began to make use openly of an amount of precise 
information — of a most intimate nature — which 
could only have been procured by means of an in- 
former. There was a great sensation; and then 
there was a greater. For a rumour began to spread 
that the State secrets concerned had been revealed 
by a woman to her lover, and that woman no other 
than the Princess Ottilie. The man was supposed 
to be an attache to a certain embassy. Furthermore 
it was said that the Princess had been driven to her 
indiscretion by the infidelities of her husband.” 

“ I’ve heard that kind of story before,” said Both- 
field. He looked out languidly at the passing show 


24 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


as the view of it filtered through the Venetians. 
They were now moving, but slowly, with a stream 
of traffic that swayed westward through a narrow- 
ing thoroughfare, and could be seen to be rapidly 
becoming congested a stone’s-throw beyond. 

“ The deuce ! ” said Cossebaude, following his 
eye. “ We shall never get to the Palace of Justice 
at this rate. They have evidently blocked the 
Wiener Strasse, and thrown this jumble of carts 
and carriages upon us. We must take a short cut.” 
He drew the check-string. “ Drive up the Kellner 
Gasse, coachman. What was I saying? 

“ Oh, yes, you have heard that story before. So 
have I. But I believe no two persons were ever 
more slandered than our Prince and Princess. It 
was not till the rumour was common property, even 
bandied about from mouth to mouth, the enjoyment 
of every Bummler and vagabond, that it came to 
Prince Ferdinand’s knowledge. It had lost nothing 
in the telling, I expect. The Prince does not let 
the grass grow under his feet. In fact, his peculiar 
vice is a hastiness that has caused his Ministers 
trouble enough. He put his men to work; and they 
traced the whole fabrication back to Count Gott^ 
fried von Incke.” 

“How?” 


TRIAL OF GOTTFRIED VON INCKE 


25 


“ The Count had written a series of scandalous 
letters to a lady of the Court, more famed for her 
tongue than her beauty. She has gone across the 
border,” added the Captain grimly. “ Before she 
went her house was searched by the police, and the 
letters seized. After that, — well, a — difficulty — 
occurred.” 

“ I should have thought that the letters, in this 
autocratic State, would have been sufficient to en- 
able you to hang the gentleman out of hand.” 

“ Oh, you think so, do you ? On the contrary, 
we are very punctilious now-a-days with our legal 
etiquette. Still, after a properly constituted trial, 
there is no doubt they would have been the means 
of convicting the Count of libelling their Royal 
Highnesses. Which is, of course, treason, and pun- 
ishable by imprisonment for life in a fortress. They 
were proof enough to satisfy even a lawyer ; the pity 
of it is that the other matter — foreign powers’ 
knowledge — could not be proven to have origin- 
ated with Incke, though setting aside the Princess, 
no one but he could have had the information to 
supply, so the Prince’s men had to fall back upon the 
letters. But then, the difficulty ...” Cosse- 
baude reddened. 

? ” 


“ Was- 


26 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


'' Oh, that fool of a von Engelstadt ! It was 
sheer rank jobbery that pitchforked him into the 
higher ranks of the police. Now, if they had sent 
me. Well, the truth of the matter is, the clumsy 
oaf in charge of the business allowed the letters to 
be stolen. And before they had even been officially 
examined, too.” 

'' Oh! Your Count Gottfried von Incke must be 
a pretty smart man.” 

Smart ! He’s the devil himself. After he left 
the Court he took upon himself to become the cham- 
pion of the Reformers, and they^re a pretty clever 
set of rascals. What with their spies and their 
secret societies and their Revolutionary programme 
— they have some humbug about establishing a con- 
stitutional government — they lead us a dance, I can 
assure you. Incke was by way of virtuously re- 
pudiating the corruptions of the Palace. He posed 
as a man with newly-awakened convictions. They 
swallowed the bait greedily, and that’s how he got 
them to do his dirty work for him. All men are 
free and equal with them, you know, and they don’t 
hesitate to make use of the light-fingered gentry if 
necessary. That’s why they have collected such a 
lot of the scum about them, and how they get their 
underground affairs managed so well. Incke is a 


TRIAL OF GOTTFRIED VON INCKE 


27 


member of their council, I believe, and if he is con- 
victed we may expect difficulties with them. 
Wouldn’t wonder if it might be a bomb thrown 
into the middle of the Court to-day.” 

Bombs and Revolutionaries ! They had taken 
such a place in Bothfield’s consideration hitherto 
as the giant gooseberry; vague and exaggerated 
news items with which the penny public was fed. 
Now, they suddenly seemed to loom in the fore- 
ground of his imagination, grim, life-like, and 
menacing. He felt a little shiver creep along his 
spine, and he regretted his lust for macaroni au 
parmesan more heartily than ever. But the non- 
chalance of the Captain of Police piqued him, and 
he found himself, for the first time in his life, 
feigning indifference instead of feeling it. 

“If the evidence held is so slight, and convic- 
tion so doubtful, why on earth have you brought 
the fellow to trial ? ” 

“ That’s the Prince’s fault. Naturally he wants 
the whole lie exposed, and, unfortunately, a prince 
can’t seek satisfaction like an ordinary mortal. He 
wanted to, though, badly, and so to save him spit- 
ting himself upon Incke’s sword-point, the Govern- 
ment made haste to arrest the fellow, and lodge 
him safely out of the Prince’s reach. His High- 


28 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


ness is moving — and will move — heaven and earth 
to get Incke to face and fight him, hence the 
Count’s detention under lock and key in the name 
of Justice — for which you can substitute Merke- 
witz, if you like. But I fear it’s only a temporary 

measure, and if Incke is acquitted ” Cosse- 

baude paused. Then his mouth curled into some 
secret amusement, and again his eye ran over his 
companion thoughtfully. 

Bothfield finished the sentence. 

“ The Prince will call him out ? Why don’t your 
men deport him across the frontier ? ” 

“ Exactly what we mean to do, — if we can. 
. . . Look, now. I told you of the Reformers. 
You are passing through the headquarters of their 
party now. It is a savoury neighborhood, hey ? ” 

The carriage was passing, at foot-pace, down a 
narrow, evil-smelling street that looked as if it 
were a legacy from the days of Amaro’s unregen- 
erate youth. High, small-eyed houses with over- 
hanging roofs, low doorways, and a green mouldi- 
ness of exterior, propped each other crazily on 
either side, their walls throwing the echoes to and 
fro as the carriage laboured over the cobblestones 
with the horses’ hoofs among the garbage in the 
middle gutter. Bothfield wondered at the deserted 


TRIAL OF GOTTFRIED VON INCKE 


29 


look of the place. Rickety shutters barred most 
of the windows; not a door stood open; and the 
only living creatures to be seen were a few lean 
fowls that scattered shrieking as they advanced. 

“ It is a slum,” he said. “ And a dead one, 
too.” 

“ Oh, no ! Our friends here come out mostly 
like bats, by night. To be sure you would gen- 
erally see a little more life, but to-day I have no 
doubt the population of the Gasse is swelling the 
crowd round the Palace of Justice. You won’t 
see them because we’re going another way. . . . 
Do you see that sign swinging above a doorway on 
the left ? Look well at the house as you pass, for it 
is the tavern of the Weissen Hirsch, the headquar- 
ters of the Reformers in Amaro. Enough mis- 
chief has been brewed there to wear the entire police 
force to a shadow, yet we can never lay hands upon 
the conspirators in consultation, because the inn 
is riddled like a rabbit-warren, with passages and 
secret hiding-holes into which they can scuttle.” 

Bothfield looked. The place was as evil-looking 
as any in the street; its face unwashed, its walls 
bulging and cracking through the dirt, and the 
doorstep filthy with the grime of years. It seemed 
to sleep, a sodden, drunken sleep; and then sud- 


30 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


denly an eye opened. High above the street a case- 
ment was unlatched, and a girl looked down. 

The glimpse that Bothfield saw first made him 
glue his face eagerly to his spy-hole in the car- 
riage-blind. For the face above was rosy, and 
piquant, and it flashed through the sordid outlook 
like a jewel upon a dungheap. It looked down, 
smiling with eager curiosity, and the lips parted 
in a bewitching curve. A white, dimpled arm 
leaned upon the sill, and some vagrant curls tossed 
in the current of air that pierced the funnel-like 
alley. Something within Bothfield melted, and a 
warm spring of life, delicious, tantalizing, and in- 
definable, bubbled in his mediocre breast. The 
vision was so unexpected, and the feeling to which 
it gave birth so unfamiliar, that he remained gaz- 
ing, dumb and motionless, till the passing of the 
carriage left the Weissen Hirsch behind. Cosse- 
baude, who, from his seat on the other side, could 
not see higher than the ground-floor of the tavern, 
looked suspiciously at his companion. 

“ What are you staring at there? ” he said, in his 
gruff, official tone. 

An impulse which was as inexplicable as the 
quickening of his pulse with which it came, made 
Bothfield lie glibly. 


TRIAL OF GOTTFRIED VON INCKE 


31 


Nothing, I thought I saw a shutter move; that 
is all/’ 

‘‘ There was the unshaven face of some scoun- 
drelly revolutionist behind it, I make no doubt,” 
said Cossebaude. Kindly keep your nose out of 
that crack. It is most important that you should 
not be seen. Here, now, you are running the great- 
est risk by exposing yourself for even a second.” 

Bothfield could not help marvelling that he had 
been allowed to incur the possibility of risk, when 
it would have been so much simpler to have left 
him under lock and key at the Bellevue ; and a doubt 
of Count Merkewitz’s disinterestedness skimmed 
through his mind, propelled in part by the sugges- 
tion of some secret, cynical amusement that was 
once more visible in Cossebaude’s face. But the 
surprise of the minute before did not allow him to 
dwell upon anything but itself, and he sank back 
into his corner and tried to recall it, yet more 
vividly, to his mental vision. 

He was lost in this pleasing occupation while 
the carriage rattled out of the alley into a broader 
thoroughfare, and so with a few more dives and 
cross-cuts through a gateway in the high, blank 
wall that guarded the flank of the Palace of Jus- 
tice. Here a hoarding which had been newly 


32 THE WHIRLIGIG 

erected across the only way to the front of the 
building, shut out all possibility of onlookers, and 
the Englishman and his guardian rolled through 
after being challenged by a sentry, and found them- 
selves in an obscure couiiy^rd. It seemed to Both- 
field to belong to the coal-cellars of the Palace; 
and the conjecture was confirmed when he stepped 
out upon a gritty flagstone, and heard through an 
open window the roar of the furnace which worked 
the hot-air system that warmed the building. A 
heap of cinders and slack was piled outside the 
door. Cossebaude slipped his arm through Both- 
field’s and picked his way round it, and plunged 
through a dark entry into the bowels of the Palace. 

They stumbled down a passage, and up a flight 
of fire-proof steps. The staircase wound onwards 
in a spiral, and the Captain of Police, his hand still 
upon Bothfield’s arm, fled over it at a pace that 
left his companion no leisure for obseiA^ation. It 
was only when they halted, after a final breathless 
rush down a sky-lighted corridor, in a little ante- 
room upon some upper story, that Bothfield could 
draw breath for speech. 

Upon my word. Captain, this is worse than 
our exit from the hotel ! What makes you in such 
a hurry here? 


TRIAL OF GOTTFRIED VON INCKE 


33 


What answer Cossebaude had ready was not to 
be known, for at that moment the door behind 
them swung open, and he wheeled round with an 
exclamation. It died away as his eyes fell upon 
the face of a fat young man in the police uniform, 
and he greeted the intruder with a scowl. 

“Ach! So it is Herr Braun! And what the 
deuce is Herr Braun doing with his impertinent 
nose in this apartment?” 

Herr Braun’s rather flabby countenance flushed, 
and shrank back towards the doorway. 

“A thousand pardons, Herr Captain. The trial 
has begun, and the President of the Court has sent 
me to fetch something for him; that is all. I must 
have mistaken the room.” Then his glance fell 
upon Bothfield, and a look of amazement crossed 
his face. “ Why ! . . . Oh, I beg pardon again, 
Herr Captain, but really for the moment I thought 
I saw a likeness ” 

This time Cossebaude fell upon him and literally 
hustled him out of the room. 

“ You thought — ^you thought, did you, you 
booby ? Since when have you been allowed to think 
before your superior officers? Tausend noch einmal, 
and this is the stuff they would make into an offi- 
cer of police ! ” He plunged forward with a look 


34 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


so threatening that his subaltern gave one bewild- 
ered gasp and fled, his feet clattering away with all 
speed down the corridor. 

Hold your idiotic tongue about your thoughts ! 
boomed Cossebaude’s voice by way of speeding the 
parting guest. Then he turned to Bothfield once 
more. 

‘‘ These youngsters ! he said. They must be 
kept in order. And now I must leave you for a 
moment, in order to make a few arrangements. I 
will return — ^by and by.^^ 

The door clanged-to, and he was gone; and 
Bothfield stood alone with time at last for medita- 
tion. And the tumult of his thoughts was hastened 
by the unmistakable grating of a key as it turned 
in the lock, and left him his late companion’s pris- 
oner. 

It was a feature of that bewildering day that 
the first thing of which he thought was not the 
puzzle that had been begun in the Hotel Bellevue; 
but the face that had looked down from the win- 
dow of the Weissen Hirsch. And it was also in 
keeping with the topsy-turveydom of affairs, that 
his first impulse of anger was not because he had 
been duped; not because of the outrage to the 
liberty of the British subject; but because his im- 


TRIAL OF GOTTFRIED VON INCKE 


35 


prisonment meant that he could not follow the 
promptings of the new man, and trace his way 
back to see if the window in the Kellner Gasse were 
still open. The rage within him was so strong at 
the thought that it set him rattling the door-handle 
and kicking the panels like a school-boy, till the 
gibing echoes showed him the futility of his efforts. 
The part of the building in which he was confined 
was evidently remote from the scene of national 
interest that was being enacted somewhere beneath 
the same roof. 

Bothfield sat down on the bench which was the 
only stick of furniture, besides a row of hat-pegs, 
in the cell-like room, and turned matters over in 
his mind. It did not require much circumspection 
to understand that he was a pawn in some game 
upon which his visitors of the morning were intent. 
Was he the instrument that had been mentioned 
in that fragment of conversation from the balcony ? 
For what purpose was it necessary that he should 
have been seduced from his quarters in the hotel 
to kick his heels inside four blank walls? Was it 
true that it was disinterested kiudness that had 
kept him so anxiously from the public gaze? He 
had been smuggled into this room with great cau- 
tion; but why? Question after question buzzed 


36 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


through his brain, and the minutes flew on into 
an hour, and left him no nearer the root of the 
mystery than before. 

He looked at his watch. Twelve. And the trial 
began at ten. It was clear, then, that Captain 
Cossebaude had no intention of allowing him to 
witness the day’s proceedings ;icertain that he had 
used the notion only as a bait with which to catch 
this remarkably easy prey. He was to be put out 
of the way for a span — Bothfield had no fear that 
his imprisonment would be anything but brief — 
while the drama, in which he was beginning to 
suspect that he was intended to take an unknown 
part, unfolded itself in the Hall of Justice below. 
He racked his brain for a clue to the puzzle; he 
stamped and swore, and paced his little prison, and 
all the while the day fled on, noon passed, the after- 
noon passed, hunger nibbled below his waistcoat, an 
unaccustomed sensation, and the golden hours in 
which he might have been laying siege to the 
fortalice of the Weissen Hirsch dawdled after each 
other into limbo. Oh, the blank, maddening be- 
wilderment of it all ! 

A ray of the setting sun streaked at last across 
the chamber, and Bothfield, with his wits sharp- 
ened by that absence of luncheon which had be- 


TRIAL OF GOTTFRIED VON INCKE 


37 


come not the least annoying part of his detention, 
became aware that an outlook from the tiny barred 
window, high against the ceiling, might be gained 
with a little agility. He reared the bench on end 
against the wall, and with a flounce and a scramble 
hauled himself up to it, and found his reward. For, 
by clinging to the bars, elevating himself on tip- 
toe and resting his chin upon the sill, he discovered 
that he had regained for himself a peep-hole into 
the outer world. 


CHAPTER III 

CAPTAIN COSSEBAUDe’s EVENING DRIVE 

A RESPECTABLE Cosmopolitan of forty odd sum- 
mers, balanced betwixt his toes and his chin for 
the purpose of gazing upon the world that was his 
birthright, would have been a sufficiently sad spec- 
tacle, had any one been there to view it. As it was, 
Mr. Bothfield remained unlamented, without even 
a twinge of self-pity to mark his predicament. For 
his attention was engrossed by what he saw below 
him. 

The little window looked down from the third 
story into a courtyard. The Palace wall held, 
presumably, a doorway opening upon it, and peo- 
ple bustled, antwise, across the yard and disappeared 
into the main building. The open space was flagged, 
and it was bounded on two sides by high walls, 
beyond which came the free trees and boulevards 
of Amaro; and on a third by a gloomy-looking 
building, in appearance a cross between a fortress 
and a county gaol, which Bothfield assumed to 
be a place of detention for prisoners on trial in the 
38 


COSSEBAUDE’S EVENING DRIVE 


39 


Hall of Justice underneath him. His surmise was 
justified by the appearance of the human ants, who 
were policemen and warders to a man, and by the 
ceremony with which the door out of which they 
buzzed and crept, was unlocked and relocked for 
each new-comer. The grey wall of the prison from 
which they came boasted only a few windows, and 
these small and cross-barred ; and it was topped, no 
higher than the second story, by a flat, ugly roof 
with but one squat chimney above it. The aspect 
of the place spelt captivity; and to Bothfield the 
word was already too familiar. Yet he felt his 
heart beat as he looked, for the ferment below was 
increasing every moment, and he guessed that its 
excitement was caused by the drama from which he 
had been excluded. He was, in a manner of speak- 
ing, at the wings : he could see only a small portion 
of the stage, but even that was worth looking upon. 

The palace swallowed up the policemen, and 
then disgorged them almost immediately, so far 
digested as to be a procession where before they 
had been units. They came issuing from the un- 
seen door with a glitter of arms, the ring of their 
boots upon the flags coming clearly to the spec- 
tator’s ear. And in the centre of the steel-girt 
ring walked a prisoner. He strode jauntily, looking 


40 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


about him with a nonchalant air, and Bothfield was 
ready to swear to it that he must be Gottfried von 
Incke, with the words of condemnation or acquittal 
still tingling in his ears. He was bare-headed, but 
his face could scarcely be seen from the third story. 
And it was the more to be regretted because Both- 
field became convinced at the first glance that his 
style and figure were familiar to him. It was a 
short journey, and the door in the grey wall snapped 
upon prisoners and gaolers, and shut them out of 
sight. Bothfield followed their progress till the 
lock grated, and then remained still peering and tip- 
toeing, as if his eyes had been able to penetrate the 
solid stone, his attention too engrossed by the man 
he had seen to let him return to solid earth. 

Where, and how, had he seen Gottfried von 
Incke before? He was dressed in a drab, full- 
skirted overcoat that was a commonplace garment 
enough, but his walk, the shape of his head, the 
appearance of the outer man, were all to Bothfield’s 
mind as those of some one he knew, and knew well. 
The set of the head upon the shoulders, the neutral- 
tinted hair, — nay, even the points of a reddish 
waxed moustache — were all unaccountably familiar. 
Yet his friends were not too many to count upon 
his ten fingers — in the true sense of the word he 


COSSEBAUDE’S EVENING DRIVE 


41 


could not boast of one — and not a man among 
them resembled the prisoner. Could he have met 
him in some hotel in his wanderings? It was pos- 
sible; but the strange thing about him was that he 
seemed too familiar an object for a chance acquaint- 
ance, or a fellow-traveller. Bothfield not only 
knew the way he walked, but he was able to forecast 
correctly the little sharp jerk forward of his chin 
that he gave when he had to bend under the low 
doorway, and the way he thrust one hand behind 
his back. 

Why, what a trick for my memory to play 
me ! he said. Deuce take the fellow, I know 
him as well as if he were my own brother. Where 
can I have seen him ? ’’ 

''Taitsend noch einmal!” came the thundering 
answer. It was irrelevant, but its force was enough 
to set our athlete tottering upon the top of his 
edifice. '^Tansend noch einmal! Will you have 
the goodness to step down from the ceiling? Herr 
Je, was the man planning an escape, up there ? 

The voice was the voice of Captain Cossebaude, 
and Bothfield, between a desire to pick his bone 
with him, and confusion at being discovered in 
such an undignified position, let go, lost his balance, 
and came flying to the ground with the bench in 


42 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


hot pursuit. There was a clatter and a thud, and 
a strong hand swung him to his feet, and withdrew 
to let him feel for his bruises. 

So ! said Cossebaude, and the Teutonic mono- 
syllable was expressive. He surveyed the smarting 
Bothfield leisurely, and swung the door-key from 
his finger. 

So ! indeed,’’ said Bothfield. I want an ex- 
planation of all this. Confound you, sir, what do 
you mean by leaving me to starve all day in this 
dog-hole ? It’s infamous; it’s an outrage that you 
shall pay for. You decoyed me here under false 
pretences — I don’t believe you meant me to witness 
the trial at all — and I shall write to the Times this 
evening.” His pent-up anger choked him when he 
thought of his indignities, and with them and yet 
above, the tormenting vision of the face at the 
Weissen Hirsch. And to think that but for this 
surly boor, he might have been already on at least 
speaking terms with its owner! 

Oh, I regret your detention,” said Cossebaude. 

I am glad you took upon yourself to enliven it, 
though; that’s a nasty bruise on your wrist, eh? 
To tell the truth, I would gladly have sent you up 
a light lunch, if only by way of acknowledging our 
breakfast, but I thought it best not to agitate you 


COSSEBAUDE’S EVENING DRIVE 


43 


too soon. You see, you had to stay in some safe 
corner for to-day, and so there was an end of the 
matter.” 

“ I cannot believe you,” said Bothfield. “ Why 
you wanted me out of the way passes my compre- 
hension; but you shall not deceive me any longer 
with your stuff about foreign spies and the popu- 
lace. I came into Amaro freely enough.” 

“ Well, if you won’t believe it ” — Cossebaude 
shrugged his broad shoulders. “ At any rate, be 
so good as to calm yourself a little, and then we 
will go and have a — a late luncheon — an early sup- 
per — what you will.” 

“We! Is it likely? Stand back from that 
door, sir, and let me pass. I have business in 
the city.” 

He pushed forward. The Captain’s sturdy form 
still blocked the way. The next moment there was 
a concussion, and then Bothfield hopped back 
smartly, with the nose of a revolver not ten inches 
from his face. 

“ There, you fool ! It had to come to that. My 
orders are explicit, and if you want to quarrel with 
anybody you can go and talk to His Excellency 
the Count Merkewitz by and by. But at present you 
.will please to understand that you are still in my 


44 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


charge, and that I don’t mean to stick at trifles to 
keep you in it.” 

It was an ultimatum, delivered with the revolver 
levelled, and with the same lowering air of 
determination on Cossebaude’s face that had been 
there in the beginning. There was again nothing 
to do but submit. 

I warn you that you shall hear of this later.” 

The present is what matters to me. Now, Mr. 
Bothfield, suppose we go and get something to eat.” 

They went; and the revolver lay in the Captain’s 
pocket, into which his thumb was hooked artlessly. 
It was a silent progression, for Bothfield’s sense 
of helpless exasperation was too acute to allow him 
speech. It was not until they had passed down the 
corridors and the stairs, and found themselves in 
what appeared to be a deserted refectory, that he 
allowed his curiosity to master his indignation. 

That was the Count von Incke I saw in the 
courtyard? Tell me now if — no, where, for I am 
sure it has happened — I have seen him before ? He 
looked as familiar as my own brother, and yet I 
know I had not heard his name, and I can’t call to 
mind any chance encounter.” 

Cossebaude looked at him with a sudden con- 
vulsion of his heavy countenance. 


COSSEBAUDE’S EVENING DRIVE 


45 


“ Oh, ha ! ha ! ” he exploded. Then he drew into 
his shell once more. “How should I know where 
you have come across him? Perhaps his photo- 
graph has caught your eye in one of the shop- 
windows. Very singular idea about his face seem- 
ing familiar though. Ho, ho ! ” 

“ ’Twasn’t so much his face as his general 
appearance,” said Bothfield, forgetting his irrita- 
tion in his interest. “ I can’t think . . . Oh, by 
the way, what happened at the trial? Was he 
convicted ? ” 

“ That’s the bother of it all,” said Cossebaude. 
He had locked the door, and was producing raw 
ham, sausages, bread and wine, from a cupboard. 
He put them on the table and began to rummage 
for knives and forks. “ It fell out as I told you. 
There wasn’t a tittle of direct evidence for the 
Crown, and the fellow was acquitted.” 

“But I saw ” 

Cossebaude gave a great horse-laugh. 

“ You were able to see a great deal, then, from 
the top of that erection? I give you credit for 
some ingenuity, Mr. Bothfield.” 

“ I didn’t see much,” said Bothfield, stiffly. 

“ No ? But you were going to say, — oh yes, I 
understand. You saw Incke returning to the guard- 


46 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


house, hey? Ah, that was only because it would 
not be advisable to let a prisoner walk out of the 
dock into the company assembled; there would be 
demonstrations and disturbances, and a hundred 
things. It is, besides, as I explained to you, con- 
sidered expedient that the Count von Incke should 
be persuaded to cross the frontier. . . . But you’re 
not eating anything! Come, take a little more 
sausage.” 

“Confound you and your sausages ! ” said Both- 
field in a feverish outburst. The deliberation of 
the Captain, who had a certain lumbering air of 
mischief, as of a school-boy who impales a butter- 
fly, rasped upon his nerves. “ I want to get to the 
bottom of this. It’s granted that I am not kid- 
napped in this disgraceful fashion from a philan- 
thropic motive. There is some intrigue behind it 
all. I am a tool, it appears ; or an obstruction. For 
God’s sake, let me have a mouthful of solid truth.” 

“ I refer you to Count Merkewitz again,” said 
Cossebaude. “ But I can tell you this much, that 
we don’t mean to let you go till you have done a 
little something for us. You can call that being 
a tool if you like. If you choose to put in a claim 
for services afterwards, I don’t believe you will 
find the Government ungrateful.” 


COSSEBAUDE’S EVENING DRIVE 


47 


“Hush-money!” 

“Stuff and nonsense. I really wish you would 
make a better meal, because the next thing we are 
going to do is to go for a drive, and it may be a 
long and cold one.” 

“A drive ! ” Bothfield sank back in his chair. 
“Ah! Am I to be deported across the frontier, 
then?” 

“ Oh, no. I assure you that your company is 
much too precious to lose. No, no; you and I are 
going to drive out together, that is all the business, 
and as you omitted to bring an overcoat and it may 
be cold, I have taken the trouble to provide you 
with one. Am I not considerate ? ” 

“ Stop a bit ! ” said Bothfield. A ray of hope 
lighted him for the moment. “ Shall we — are we 
going by the Kellner Gasse ? ” There was in his 
mind a wild resolve to submit so far, and then to 
make a dash for freedom at the spot where he had 
seen the vision of the window. The Weissen Hirsch 
was a rabbit-warren of Revolutionaries. Well, 
what better place could he, who had been the victim 
of a vile conspiracy of bureaucrats, choose in which 
to find help and shelter? How far the face had 
helped to bring to birth this frantic scheme was not 
to be known, for Cossebaude strangled it in its in- 
fancy. 


48 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


“ You have some mischief brewing in your head,” 
he said, and again his fingers, perhaps by chance, 
fumbled in the bulging pocket. “ Be advised by 
me — I assure you, if you were an Amalian I should 
almost have a liking for you, and I wish you nothing 
but good — and resign yourself to a little more mys- 
tification. You will know what it means presently, 
and, after all, you will not find a great cause for 
offence. No; we are not going to drive through 
the Gasse. Far from it, we are going for a nice 
little spin into the country. And now let me assist 
you into this overcoat.” 

He stepped forward, and shook the coat out of 
its folds. His persistence, and the school-boy air 
which had been before in him, helped Bothfield to 
fresh suspicions. He looked, and looked again. 
Then memory came to his assistance, and he started 
back, as a fly might do that finds the web clogging 
its unwary feet. 

“ Why ! ” he cried. “ I have seen that only a 
little while ago. That is the coat in which von 
Incke walked across the courtyard.” 

“Well?” said Cossebaude, and held it out in- 
vitingly. “ Why not the Count’s coat as well as 
anybody else’s? He is going south, where, I under- 
stand, a light paletot is sufficient. You, on the 


COSSEBAUDE’S EVENING DRIVE 


49 


contrary, are going for a cold evening drive. There 
is this much to be said for the scoundrel, — you 
need not be afraid of his tailor. It is a well-made 
garment. Come ! ’’ 

I won’t ! ” said Bothfield, despairingly. He 
felt desperate: the spider was advancing upon its 
victim, and alas! he was but a helpless midge. 

This is some more of your devilry. In heaven’s 
name, what game is this that you are playing with 
me? Why am I to borrow the Count von Incke’s 
plumes? I implore you to tell me. Let me go — I 
appeal to you, sir, as one gentleman to another — 
let me go ! ” 

‘‘ Gad, it is not my doing,” said the Captain, 
with a solemn shake of his bullet head. I give 
you my word, though. I’m doing the best I can for 

you. And it’s no good kicking. Come ! Else ” 

and the coat remained suspended by one hand only, 
while the other sought his pocket. 

The next minute he and Bothfield were walking 
side by side out of the dismal eating-chamber, and 
the latter was perspiring in a steam of perplexity, 
inside the obnoxious garment. 

A few paces brought them to an imposing stair- 
case. It was evident that their hiding among coal- 
entries and closets was over, for Cossebaude 


so 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


descended with the greatest assurance into a vast 
entrance-hall over which Justice, in winking white 
marble, balanced her scales and raised her sword. 
The chequered pavement bore the dust of footprints, 
and an attendant in a crimson livery was sweeping 
up a litter of torn paper and debris. On the left, 
glass doors opened upon a noble portico; on the 
right more massive doors, with emblematical panels, 
shut off what was presumably the great Hall of 
Justice. The dusk was already thick in the corners, 
the gilded ceiling lowering dimly through the 
gloom, and when the pair wheeled towards the 
outer air, Bothfield saw the lamps were once more 
gemming the city beyond the trees. They stepped* 
out into the crisp air, the last of those interested 
in the great trial to leave the building. 

An open carriage and pair were drawn up on the 
gravel. Cossebaude motioned to Bothfield to step 
in, and he followed him. As he shut the carriage- 
door a policeman came out from the shade of the 
portico and saluted. 

Ah, that’s you, is it, Heinrich ? ” said Cosse- 
baude, affably. ‘‘ Well, you can tell his Excellency 
that we left at ” — he looked at his watch — five- 
thirty exactly. Vorwdrts, coachman! The Mu- 
springen road, if you please.” 


COSSEBAUDFS EVENING DRIVE 


51 


Bothfield sat silent, and the carriage swept out 
of the portico into the gathering dusk. The shadows 
of the lime-avenue into which they dashed were 
merging into smudges of twilight, except where a 
lamplighter at work made twinkle after twinkle 
prick out like fireflies. Bothfield found a sweeter 
simile. It was so, his fancy cried, that a bright 
vision of loveliness had sparkled in the dinginess 
of the revolutionist quarter. Perhaps it was look- 
ing out now — smiling perhaps — at a friend, a lover, 
— a — No! That delicious creature had not yet 
stooped to marriage, to the embraces and the indif- 
ference of some greasy Amaliari. He was ready to 
swear it from the solitary glimpse upon which his 
starved imagination had still to feed. When he 
was a free man once more. . . . 

His reverie was interrupted by an incident. As 
the carriage rolled swiftly past the lime-trees, a man 
dashed out of the shadow, and reined his horse back 
on to its hanches within finger touch of Cossebaude. 
For one short second his eyes took in the Captain 
and his prisoner, and then they left him behind 
them, and heard the scuffle of hoofs as he wheeled 
and thudded back into the twilight whence he had 
come. The event had happened in the indrawing 
of a breath, and Bothfield's impression of the ob- 


52 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


server was limited to a sharp, rapid scrutiny and a 
remarkable agility of movement. The spy — if spy 
he were — was in a prodigious hurry. And his haste 
seemed contagious, for Cossebaude’s next words 
were to the coachman. 

Faster, man, faster ! Gott im Himmel, have 
you snails inside the harness ? ’’ 

The horses had been going at a quick trot; but 
now they broke into a canter under the whip, and 
the carriage, rolling like a ship at sea, spun from the 
avenues into the encircling town, jolting over cob- 
bles, rattling in and out of tram-lines, skimming past 
the sluggish traffic of the city, and so through a 
confusion of budding lights, staring passers-by, and 
objurgatory coachmen, it won its way into the 
quieter roads that stretched through the suburbs 
into the open country. 

Are we going far ? '' said Bothfield, a hand on 
either side steadying him in the swaying and jarring. 

Are you going to lock me up in some distant for- 
tress ? What have I done ? And Muspringen — ah ! 
Oh, I am not to be deceived, sir; that is a frontier 
post. Is it our destination? ’’ 

Don’t ask so many questions, there’s a good 
fellow,” said Cossebaude. It will do no manner 
of good, and I assure you that you will find the 
philosophical attitude the most sensible one.” 


COSSEBAUDE’S EVENING DRIVE 


S3 


Well, so it might be. Bothfield had no other 
course before him now than to await events, and, as 
the evening was raw and chilly, he wrapped the bor- 
rowed coat about him (with a side thought to its 
mystery) and gripped the cushions while the sub- 
urbs flitted by, and the scattered pines and firs began 
to draw together and shoulder boldly to the roadside. 

They spun on, for mile after mile. The night 
deepened about them, and the stars began to glim- 
mer, and the wild, uncultivated country of forest 
and swamp encircled them. The metal ceased, and 
the carriage thumped over rough ground, while the 
beat of hoofs was deadened in sand-ruts. There 
was a lonely silence before ; but the road over which 
they had passed was not so dumb. For, even as 
the clatter of their equipage became stifled by the 
sand, and their pace lessened, the night began to 
grow alive with a pulse-throbbing behind them. It 
beat upon Bothfield’s ears at first unheeded, unable 
to find its way to a brain already over-burdened 
with reflection, and then it became insistent, and 
finally clamorous. 

He returned to Cossebaude, and saw that his hear- 
ing was on the alert. 

“ You hear it too, then ? It sounds like pursuit ! ” 

“ It is a pursuit,” said the Captain with a grin. 


54 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


no question of that. And not far behind us either. 
One — two — three, — three horsemen, I should say.’’ 
He checked them off on his fingers, his body half- 
turned, and his head tilted sideways in an attitude 
of attention. 

It was impossible not to suspect that the event 
was not only anticipated, but that it was even de- 
sired. There was an expression of positive glee 
upon Cossebaude’s face as the gallop of the pur- 
suers crept nearer. The coachman, on the contrary, 
seemed anything but anxious to risk an encounter, 
and fled onwards, lashing and driving his steeds 
with the recklessness of a Phaeton. The carriage 
bounced over the road with an incredible celerity 
and with ever-increasing momentum. 

Why are they following us ? What will happen 
when they overtake us? For God’s sake tell the 
driver to be cautious! We shall be over in a mo- 
ment.” Bothfield, clinging to the cushions, jerked 
out the sentences between the bounds and rebounds 
of the coach. 

Cossebaude was still flinging side glances into the 
darkness that held the enemy, and still, with incon- 
ceivable callousness, he seemed engaged in some 
private calculation. 

Five miles to the border of the city; seven miles 


COSSEBAUDE’S EVENING DRIVE 


55 


to the edge of the forest; seven and five — and say 
another two. Yes, I think it is what the Count will 
consider a practical diversion. Coachman ! What’s 
the hurry? You will drive us all to hell in another 
minute.” 

The man turned his head for a second, and Both- 
field saw that he was pale with fright. Then he 
returned to his pulling and lashing, a few guttural 
ejaculations flying over his shoulder as he bent to 
his task. 

Himmel! Didn’t the Captain say the Reform- 
ers would be on our heels? Didn’t he say they 
would slit my wind-pipe if I stopped? Thunder- 
weather, and he expects me to drive as if we were 
out for an airing ! ” 

“ This,” said Cossebaude, “ comes of lying freely. 
I did certainly mention a contingency, and here we 
have the result of my little word-picture.” 

The off-wheels of the carriage ran nimbly up a 
pine-stump and leapt from the top. They came 
down square, by a miracle, and whirled forward 
again. 

“ Halt, you blockhead ! The Reformers are not 
within ten miles of our track. . . . No ! He will 
not stop. You must sit tight, Mr. Bothfield, for 
the final catastrophe.” 


56 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


“But isn’t it the Reformers?” said Bothfield 
between his flights. 

“Eh? No; certainly not. If you really want 

to know it’s How far do you think they are 

behind us now? ” 

“ Who? About thirty yards, I should say. They 
must have splendid horses.” 

“ The best in the Royal stables, my dear sir. 
Well, I may as well enlighten you now. You see, 
it’s this way. When the Prince heard of the ac- 
quittal of von Incke, we knew that he would want 
to fight to satisfy his honour. And it’s not ex- 
pedient that Royal personages — ah ! the wheel’s off 
. . . no . . . still safe — ^but — one can’t refuse Roy- 
alty — so — so — best thing — remove his adversary! 
Ach — h — h ! It’s the end ! ” 

It was. The thunderous hoofs, so close behind 
them now, had urged the coachman to desperate 
effort. His place of action was ill-chosen, for the 
forest had narrowed the road into little more than 
a cart-track, and that arched with pine-branches 
and knotty with roots. An arm of a fir swept above 
the box, and caught the driver by the throat, and he 
toppled backwards with one last clutch at the reins. 
The horses reared and shied, and the carriage made 
a gallant but unsuccessful effort to climb the nearest 


COSSEBAUDE’S EVENING DRIVE 


57 


tree. There was a shout, a crash, an upheaval, and 
the stars that twinkled overhead danced in Both- 
field’s eyes. He shot out, the Captain underneath 
him, and the twain embraced their mother earth 
with outspread arms. 


CHAPTER IV 


MR. BOTHFIELD REGAINS HIS LIBERTY 

It was the strong arm of one of the pursuers, 
tugging and hauling at him under the debris of the 
carriage, that brought Mr. Bothfield back to the 
knowledge of a world of trouble. He tried to sit 
up and nurse his head, which had grown painful, 
and unaccountably heavy. Presently he under- 
stood that the body of the vehicle was resting upon 
it, and he made haste to find fresh air, with the 
help of the arm. His rescuer was lying on his 
belly, groping at such portions of the hidden human 
as he could grip, and by his assistance, and his own 
blind endeavour, the Englishman was dragged to 
light. It was not a very brilliant illumination, con- 
sisting merely of a horn lantern, and the rather 
amateurish effort of a few stars, and for a second 
or two Bothfield saw nothing but some indistinct 
figures about him, and the crowding wall of the 
forest. Presently, as his sight grew clearer, and 
the night air sharpened his senses, he made out 
Cossebaude. 


BOTHFIELD REGAINS HIS LIBERTY 


59 


The Captain was sitting against a pine-trunk, 
bareheaded, imbibing schnapps from a flask that 
another man, in Bodyguard uniform, was holding 
to his lips; and Bothfield fancied he was not so 
much injured that he could find no pleasure in the 
occupation. The wreck of the carriage blocked the 
road before them. The significance of the group, 
however, lay in the fact that Cossebaude’s sword 
was hanging by its belt, where it had been pitched 
into the thicket, and that the ministering angel's 
left hand held a revolver. Nevertheless, the parties 
seemed on friendly terms. 

Bothfield tried to scramble to his feet, and a 
hand, grasping him by the skirt of his borrowed 
plume, plucked him back again, while he under- 
stood, rather than felt, that the muzzle of a pistol 
was somewhere near his ear. So he, too, was a 
prisoner. And again the freak of human intelli- 
gence made him think first that he was near to solv- 
ing the matter of his kidnapping, and secondly that 
Cossebaude would now learn by personal experience 
how irksome his situation had been, before he re- 
membered that he had only exchanged one gaoler 
for another. 

''Is the Prince here?" he heard the Captain 
question faintly. 


6o 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


He is not far behind. I would not be in your 
shoes for something. This is the most flagrant 
violation of his Highness’ demand, as transmitted 
from him by me directly the verdict was given.” 

I act under the order of my superior.” 

Who is the Prince’s subordinate. Merkewitz 
and Holseg are in disgrace.” 

Oh, they’ll scrape out of it somehow, and if 
promises are anything, I shall get off equally lightly. 
The Prince cannot make an example of his officers 
for preventing him doing an unconstitutional act. 
He’ll see that when his anger cools. . . . Lieber 
Gott, how my head aches ! And there’s something 
infernally wrong with this left wrist.” 

A man, whom Bothfield afterwards understood 
to be the young army surgeon who was the Prince’s 
household doctor, left the recumbent and groaning 
coachman, and inspected the injured member. 

Only strained,” he said, and proceeded to ex- 
temporise a bandage. Then, to distract his patient’s 
attention — Well, let’s hear all about it before the 
Prince comes.” 

He is furious,” put in Bothfield’s captor. 

I expect so.” Cossebaude gave a weak chuckle. 

Fll tell you the whole story. It was this way : 
Merkewitz and Holseg came to me just before the 


BOTHFIELD REGAINS HIS LIBERTY 6 1 

trial, and said that the Prince was determined Incke 
should not escape punishment by his hand. If he 
were condemned he would go into his cell and fight 
the duel a I’oufrance with him there ; if he were ac- 
quitted his men should seize him as he left the 
prison, and convey him to a shrubbery in the Palace 
gardens.” 

“ Yes, I know.” The doctor nodded. “ I had 
instructions to attend.” 

“ It had to be prevented. How could the Prince 
be allowed to jeopardize his life, perhaps fling it 
away heedlessly? Incke is one of the cleverest 
scoundrels in the country, and if not the Prince’s 
equal in honest sword-play, he would be more than 
a match if an opportunity to play false fell to him.” 

Bothfield felt his guard’s grip tighten on his arm. 
He gave an involuntary wince and was about to 
speak, when a hand was clapped over his mouth. 

“ Not a word, you rascal. It is true, and you 
know it. Ach, that Amalia should breed such a 
reptile ! Go on. Captain. The fellow does not seem 
to like your criticisms. He struggles.” 

“ Who ? ” said Cossebaude. “ How ? Ah, yes, 
I see.” He went off into as hearty a guffaw as 
his condition would allow. “ Keep his mouth shut 
for him, good friend, he will have enough to say 


62 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


presently. . . . Well, as I was saying, it was ar- 
ranged that, in the event of an acquittal, Incke 
should be deported out of his Highness' reach. For 
my part I was entrusted with the charge of a — cer- 
tain person, to convey him from the Palace of - 
Justice along the Muspringen road, and to get a 
good start before the hue-and-cry began. The 

Prince sent Lieutenant von Clausewitz " 

That is I," nodded the guardsman. 

I believe so — sent you to tell the Governor of 
the House of Detention to deliver Incke to him, 
immediately after he had been withdrawn there to 
await the dispersal of the crowd at the end of the 

trial. An answer was returned " 

That he had been released already. That was 
false," broke in Bothfield's captor. '' We suspected 
as much, and set a watch on the exits of the Palace. 

I was in the main alley leading to the town at dusk, 
and I saw you leave. But why, in God's name, did 
you not sneak off more quietly? We are none of 
us anxious to risk our Prince. It might have been 
a royal procession dashing out of the gates." 

Light had been long in penetrating to Bothfield's 
mental vision ; but it burst upon him now. An ex- 
clamation bubbled to his lips, to be choked back by 
the hand of his guardian. He was ready to foam 


BOTHFIELD REGAINS HIS LIBERTY 63 


at the mouth as he saw the egregious fashion in 
which he had been trapped and tricked, to play a 
walking part in this petty State drama. He saw 
Cossebaude’s explosion when he remarked upon the 
familiarity of Incke's features; he recalled the se- 
crecy with which he had been hurried through the 
streets, and the misrepresentation of the feeling of 
the populace that had been used to keep him out of 
sight. His memory flashed back to the conversa- 
tion in the balcony; the conversation to which he 
had listened so carelessly, and which had been the 
foundation of all his subsequent calamity. Famil- 
iarity ! The counterpart of Incke’s face, not exactly, 
it was true, but sufficiently like to make him the 
instrument of the Prince’s deception, looked at him 
from his glass every morning. It was a curious 
resemblance, accentuated by the coincidence of the 
moustache, and as it appeared to the trio projected 
beyond the screen of the hotel balcony it must have 
looked like a shaft from the bow of Providence, 
drawn to ease them of their dilemma. And the 
overcoat put the finishing touch to the likeness. 
As a false scent, dragged across the real traitor’s 
trail, how well it had served its purpose! Now, if 
he could only explain — only protest that the fraud 
must be unveiled — only get rid of this insolent hand 


64 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


that stifled his eloquence, he would unmask the Cap- 
tain’s perfidy and be free. Free! Bothfield felt 
as if liberty were a possession to which he had been 
a stranger for years. 

He writhed and struggled, and the diversion 
caused the conversation in his ears to break off 
suddenly. What Cossebaude’s explanation of his 
tactics might have been was not to be known, for 
the demand for it was forgotten in the zest with 
which Clausewitz also fell upon him. Breathless, 
man-handled, and choking with rage, Bothfield op- 
posed the double onslaught tooth and nail. 

Damnation ! He is certainly the devil himself,” 
said the other, when the victim was successfully 
mastered, and lay with his arms pinioned and a 
handkerchief stuffed in his mouth, face downward 
in the road. ‘‘ He fights like an angry woman.” 
He stood upright and wiped his face. Then he 
held up his hand, and pointed a warning finger. 

Hark ! I hear hoofs approaching ; it must be 
the Prince. Here, doctor, give us a hand to lift 
this fellow out of the road before his Highness 
comes upon us.” 

The doctor obeyed, and Bothfield was swung up 
by the head and the heels, and placed against a 
tree-stump. When the jar of the removal, which 


BOTHFIELD REGAINS HIS LIBERTY 65 


was not too tenderly carried out, had passed, he 
found that the hoof-beats were throbbing rapidly 
nearer. His captors sprang to attention, the doctor 
swinging the lantern so that its light played down 
the road. It touched the sandy track and the thicket, 
and glanced from pine to pine as they fanned their 
drooping branches in the breeze, and then it died 
against the velvety blackness of the forest, and the 
curtain of listening silence that closed upon the 
scene. The drum of hoofs grew at a mad pace, 
and out of the night dashed a horse and his rider, 
galloping so furiously that they almost over-rode 
the men. They reined back within half-a-dozen 
paces of the over-turned carriage. 

What's this? " demanded an imperious voice. 

'' Your Highness' servants — Noden, Clausewitz, 
and Kretschmar," said the doctor, as spokesman. 
‘‘And your Highness' prisoner — as desired." 

His tone found an echo in the triumphant manner 
in which his companions saluted. Cossebaude, 
blundering to his feet, followed their example, and 
the Prince dismounted. 

Bothfield saw a fair, good-looking young man 
of some thirty-eight years of age, a man whose face 
showed hot blood and determination, and whose 
carriage evinced a sense of his position. The tight- 


66 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


ening of the impatient mouth, and the quick frown 
that came as he took in the details before him, be- 
trayed the stubborn temper, against which Merke- 
witz and his men, too often defeated in the open 
field, had flung a forlorn hope in their latest 
stratagem. 

The Prince’s glance fell upon the wreck. 

What the devil does this mean? ” he said, and 
he looked from one man to another with a cold stare 
before which their air of victory melted. '' My 
orders were that there was to be no violence; but 
this place looks like a battlefield. Dr. Noden, ex- 
plain.” 

It is an accident, your Highness,” blurted the 
doctor. We — we had nothing to do with it. They 

were running away, and they ran too fast and upset, 
and then we overtook them. Captain Cossebaude 
was in the carriage as reported, and ” — he indicated 
the muffled Bothfield with a motion of the hand, — 
Captain Cossebaude has suffered a little, and the 
coachman has a slight concussion ; but I assure your 
Highness the injuries are not serious.” 

It is enough,” said the Prince. He took a 
couple of strides towards the coachman and seemed 
to make a note of his battered appearance, and then 
he retraced a step, and stood before Cossebaude. 


BOTHFIELD REGAINS HIS LIBERTY 6/ 


'^And so/’ he said slowly, but with cutting em- 
phasis, '‘this is how my faithful officers of police 
follow out my wishes! I am to be thwarted and 
disobeyed in my own city, by a knot of treason- 
mongering busybodies? And you, sir, you have 
played a part in to-day’s disloyalty ! ” 

I obeyed orders, sire,” said Cossebaude, in a 
meek voice, which Bothfield scarcely recognized. 

^'Orders, sir, when your Prince was in question? 
Oh, I know the value to put upon your fealty hence- 
forth. There will be heavy punishment meted out 
to those who have participated in this disgraceful 
affair, be they high or low. I see your sword has 
been taken from you, as I instructed. You must 
wait before you wear it again in my service.” 

He turned away from the policeman with a scorn- 
ful gesture, and Bothfield felt his heart beat quicker 
as he saw that he was now, for the first time in his 
life, to be the object of royal attention. His griev- 
ances surged to his tongue. The Prince paused in 
front of him, and contemplated the muffled, shape- 
less bundle in silence for a moment. 

^^At last 1 ” he said, and a great sigh of relief 
came into the words. Then, in a tone which was 
not intended for other ears — Ottilie, I dedicate 
my sword to thee! God will defend the right.” 


68 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


He paused with bowed head, and then he moved 
back, and motioned his men forward. 

Unfasten the prisoner,’’ he said. ‘'And doctor, 
do you make preparation for our return to Amaro. 
We have a matter to settle in the Palace garden 
at sunrise.” 

The doctor made an obeisance, and vanished to 
where the horses were tethered. Clausewitz and 
Kretschmar, vieing with each other in their haste 
to untie the knots they had drawn with so much 
vigour ten minutes before, dragged Bothfield to 
his feet, and tugged at his bonds with a readiness 
that was not without its painful aspect to the pris- 
oner. The Prince, his arms folded across his breast, 
stood sentinel in the shadow, the branches of a 
hemlock waving a canopy above his head, and the 
glitter of a distant star reflected in the jewel that 
dangled on his coat. 

The attentions of his late gaolers had their effect, 
and Bothfield’s bonds dropped from him. He 
stood out in the night, with liberty once more within 
his grasp, and realized, for the first time in his life, 
the blessedness of heaven’s free air. In truth, our 
frog-man of yesterday had had his blood warmed 
to some purpose in his four-and-twenty hours’ ex- 
perience of Amalia. His head ached atrociously. 


BOTHFIELD REGAINS HIS LIBERTY 69 

and he felt a becoming nervousness in the presence 
of an exalted personage; but withal there was joy 
that his hour of reckoning was at hand, and that the 
road to Amaro was about to be opened to him. He 
was afraid that his face had suffered in its recent 
difficulties, and an unbidden imp that perplexed his 
brain for an. instant, queried whether a black eye, 
won by misadventure, would be a recommendation 
or an offence in the sight of one of the fair sex. 
But the whimsical inquiry fled as the rope fell from 
his arms, and he saw the other men step aside, their 
hands resting on hidden fire-arms, so that the Prince 
might speak with him alone. 

“ Gottfried ! ” said the Prince. “ The time ” 

He broke off suddenly, snatched the lantern from 
Kretschmar’s hand, and thrust it into Bothfield’s 
face, with a movement so impetuous that our hero 
skipped like a grasshopper, and shot a full two feet 
into the air. He saw a change darken the face 
before him, and he shrank back, startled by the anger 
the recognition — or the lack of recognition — ^had 
branded on the Prince’s features. 

“ Fools ! Rascals ! Blockheads ! This is not 
the man ! ” 

There was a silence of consternation. The three 
huddled together like sheep, and a revulsion of de- 


70 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


meanour that would have been ludicrous to any one 
with time for a gust of humour, turned them into 
guilty school-boys. 

“ I repeat ! Pig-dogs, did none of you have the 
sense to identify the man? Was there another in 
the carriage? But, no, I see the trick; this fellow 
has a look of Incke that would make him an easy 
decoy. . . . And in the meantime Merkewitz is out- 
witting me, and propelling, I make no doubt, my 
enemy beyond my power of vengeance. . . . And 
you, miserable man! Is it not true that you are 
here to deceive me ? ” 

“ Your Highness ” Now that Bothfield’s 

tongue was loose at last, it stammered wildly, cast- 
ing about it for the virtuous flow of speech his 
mind had rehearsed. Alas ! It was not forthcom- 
ing, and the incoherence that supplanted it wore 
an air of damning confusion to his interlocutor. 
“ Your Highness — yes — no — It is a deception, cer- 
tainly, but I am not ” 

“ That will do.” The Prince held up his hand. 
“ I will deal with you later, sir. . . . Understand 
that I may be duped once, but he who jokes with me 
untimely will rue his temerity. You shall be laid 
by the heels, sir, till I have leisure to allot you 
punishment. What! you dare to speak again? 


BOTHFIELD REGAINS HIS LIBERTY 


n 


Another syllable, and you shall return to the con- 
ditions in which I found you. Presently, no doubt, 
we shall see how the law as interpreted by my judg- 
ment will deal with your offence. Now I turn to 
Captain Cossebaude, and command him to furnish 
me with the history of the plot, and to spare no de- 
tails of the affair to my hearing.’^ 

In the space in which the Prince turned his back 
upon him and the attention of the others was drawn 
to Cossebaude, Bothfield's sense of treble injustice 
led him to a resolution. He had lost his opportunity 
of being heard, and who could tell what Cossebaude 
— whom Bothfield’s imagination pictured in vague 
but imminent peril, so thoroughly had his glimpse 
of intrigue performed its mission — what the Captain 
would say to save himself from the results of his 
perfidy? He had the Prince’s ear; surely the talent 
for deception which he had shown before his dupe 
would find fresh employment in self-exculpation! 
Bothfield, a stranger, a worn-out tool, a victim, had 
nothing to depend upon but his own exertion, and 
with a rapid review of the situation, he flung his 
eggs into the one basket. Even before the Cap- 
tain’s story had reached three words, he had spun 
about on his own axis, cleft the line of forest behind 
him, and taken to his heels among the darkness. 


72 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


There was a monstrous stir and hubbub in the 
roadway, and he heard somebody, whose zeal out- 
paced his discretion, bound after him through the 
thicket, and pull up short, with the crash of a shat- 
tering lantern. A chorus of contumely buzzed 
within wake of the catastrophe, and it was probable 
that the pursuers, in their haste to seize and rekindle 
the light, were knocking heads and barking shins 
against the trees and against each other. A re- 
volver snapped, but no bullet stirred the air in Both- 
field’s direction, and as a second shot did not follow, 
he concluded they were too much at sea to fire again. 
He sped on blindly, dashing into tree-trunks, falling 
over roots and stones, his clothes torn by brambles, 
his face smarting from the buffets of twigs, and his 
heart bursting with the effort to out-distance the 
men who cried after him. 

The chase lasted for some ten minutes, and in 
that time Bothfield added to his growing experience 
the sensations of a hunted hare. With a cunning 
which he had not suspected he possessed, he twisted 
and doubled, and at every turn he made in the black- 
ness of the forest he was rewarded by hearing the 
pursuit grow fainter. It died at last into a mere 
whisper, and that one that faded in the wrong 
direction. Bothfield’s flight slackened, and he 


BOTHFIELD REGAINS HIS LIBERTY 


73 


found himself able to walk warily and study the 
local geography. The city, he knew, lay to the 
south ; and so, by means of an observation through 
the tree-tops, he laid a course by the stars, and was 
rewarded in due time by finding himself upon the 
metalled road. 

He pricked out cautiously into the open, where 
the starlight, after his sojourn in the tree-crowded 
wilds, seemed to make a brilliant illumination, and 
where he trembled at the distinctness of his figure. 
But a scrutiny of the road to left and right showed 
that there was no human being within range, and 
with that and the stillness of the air, he plucked up 
courage enough to call a halt and consider his 
position. 

His bruises and his damaged clothes called for 
first attention. If, as he intended, he were to face 
the eyes of men without delay, it behoved him to 
patch himself up to the best of his ability, and make 
the bravest show that he found possible. He dipped 
his handkerchief in the ditch by the roadside, and 
washed his face, twisted up his moustache anew, 
and wiped his boots. Then he trimmed a ragged 
trouser-edge with his penknife, and scooped the 
forest earth out of his nails. His tie, which was 
dangling like a hangman’s noose — it was an un- 


74 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


pleasant suggestion, and Bothfield shuddered — ^he 
retied as well as he could, and finally he took off 
the borrowed overcoat and looked it over. 

After all, it had suffered wonderfully little ; much 
less than its new master. It was an excellent gar- 
ment, as Cossebaude had said: well-cut, thickly 
padded, and of good English cloth. But, as it stood, 
it was a danger-signal, and, if recognized, might 
trap him once more into the toils from which he 
had just freed himself. Bothfield’s first errand in 
the city should be, as he determined, to a barber’s, 
where perhaps the sacrifice of his moustache might 
rid him of his likeness to the Count of Incke. If 
that were so, need he shed the coat? It was a 
chilly night, and he had always been warned to be 
careful of his chest. 

He weighed the coat in his hands while he delib- 
erated, and as he did so, a crackle from its interior 
struck upon his ear. It had the sound of paper, 
and he forced his hand into the pockets at once. 
But they were empty ; and he had no time in which 
to reflect upon the circumstance, or to consider that 
there might be deeper hiding-places in a coat than 
an open pocket. He decided that his ear had been 
deceived by the rustle of the silk ; and thus retention 
won the day, and he buttoned himself again into 
warmth, and turned his face to Amaro. 


BOTHFIELD REGAINS HIS LIBERTY 


75 


Mile after mile he tramped, while the night deep- 
ened, and at every sound before or behind he fled, 
as a cat flies, into the hedgerow, and crouched 
there breathless, till the passer-by had gone. He 
was only disturbed twice, and on each occasion the 
interruption was caused by nothing worse than a 
belated peasant. He skirted a little village, through 
which he had passed with Cossebaude, and it proved 
to him beyond all further doubt that he was on the 
right road. But whereas it had been awake when 
last he saw it, with cheery lights in cottage windows, 
and the curl of smoke above the tiles, it was now 
dark and silent, and only the watchman, whom he 
was at great pains to avoid, broke the stillness with 
his heavy tread. 

It must have been three o’clock when Bothfield 
felt the touch of the city against his feet, and found 
that they had struck a kerbstone. He was still far 
from its heart, but the long country road began al- 
most immediately to wear a trodden look; isolated 
suburban villas surrounded by acres of no man’s 
land, began to dot the line, and the first market- 
carts, rattling over the stony thoroughfares, called 
the echoes from them. He plodded on wearily, 
and was presently greeted by a street-lamp. And 
at this outpost of civilization he stopped, and turned 


76 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


aside into the ditch that bordered a cabbage-garden, 
to await the morning. He was jaded, desolate, and 
sore, and the softness of his new refuge seemed to 
him, for the nonce, as restful as a divan. His fa- 
tigue might have led him to a well-earned nap, but 
that the problem of his future plans lay undecided. 

To return to the Hotel Bellevue to reclaim his 
baggage would be, Bothfield felt, to put his head 
into the jaws of the lion. His first acts would be 
to secure as easy a shave as the nearest barber could 
supply; a breakfast — he felt uncomfortably empty 
after his exertions and his light picnic in the Palais 
de Justice — and, of course — a visit to the Consul, 
and pen and paper for a letter to the Times. Let 
him but get the majesty of Great Britain at his 
back, and the voice of its mightiest organ, and how 
bitterly these rascally Amalians should repent the 
indignities they had thrust upon him! Bothfield, 
the man who had regarded Jingoes as savages, and 
who never read newspapers, looked forward eagerly 
to draping himself in the Union Jack and the col- 
umns of the Times. So vastly does personal ex- 
perience modify the point of view. 

There was one drawback to the early consumma- 
tion of his revenge. What if the British Consul 
should, as seemed likely, insist on his retirement 


BOTHFIELD REGAINS HIS LIBERTY 


77 


across the frontier before he unmasked his batteries ? 
Bothfield felt a strange reluctance to the thought of 
shaking Amalian dust from his feet for ever. It 
was engendered by the same desire that had urged 
his weary feet onwards through the night, and that 
was now, in defiance of his conviction, whispering 
insistently into his ear that the best way to the Con- 
sulate lay through the Kellner Gasse. The old self 
and the new argued the question out at length, pru- 
dence and outraged dignity on the one side, and on 
the other — on the other . . . was it really but the 
flutter of a girhs eyelash ? For the life of him Both- 
field could not say ; but when the stars had died and 
the dawn was clear, he found himself pressing cau- 
tiously forward, with many a backward glance, to 
the reek of the Reformers’ quarters. 


CHAPTER V 


AND MAKES SOME USE OF IT 

The hum of life, which was audible as Bothfield 
neared the city, grew when he mounted the last hill 
of the suburbs. It came from the rattle of wagons 
over the cobblestoned streets, and from the exer- 
tions of busy citizens as they opened shutters and 
scrubbed doorsteps, and set out their wares for busi- 
ness. A blue haze of smoke drifted over the uneven 
roofs: already the Hausf ratten had been up some 
hours, and the day's baking was well under way. 
A faint but savoury smell greeted Bothfield's nose 
as he descended into the outlying streets; and he 
hurried onward, spurred by hunger and his anxiety 
to be deprived of one link, at least, that bound him 
to the Count von Incke. The first step towards 
the fulfilment of his desires was soon reached in 
a small bakery, and he had hardly penetrated five 
hundred yards further into the city proper, before 
a barber's sign invited his attention. He fingered 
his moustache in a last affectionate caress, and en- 
tered the shop. 


78 


—AND MAKES SOME USE OF IT 


79 


There was no customer in occupation — indeed, 
the little evil-smelling den had no room for others — 
and Bothfield, with a brief explanation, flung him- 
self into the chair of office. The barber, an under- 
sized, ferret- faced Amalian Jew, surveyed him 
craftily as he stropped his weapon. 

“ The Herr wishes to be shaved clean ? ” 

“ Certainly.” Then with as indifferent an air 
as he could summon to him — “ What news in the 
city? I am a farmer, and have only just come in 
from the country.” 

“ Ah — ah, yes.” The Jew stopped lathering to 
look his customer over with another crafty glance. 
“Exactly. News in the city? The Count Gott- 
fried von Incke was acquitted yesterday for want 
of evidence, and it is understood he has left Amalia 
with all speed.” 

“ I have heard that.” 

“ Ah yes ! Well, there is little else. There is 
much public feeling again-st the Count — these Ama- 
lians, now, are foolishly fond of their Prince — and 
a crowd collected last night in front of his late 
town residence and broke the windows. They 
would have killed him if they could. Such things 
have been, in our history.” 

“ Incke has left the country ? ” 


8o 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


It is understood so. There would be short 
shrift for him here — as little as our public have 
usually for other criminals.’’ 

Again the cunning stare. Bothfield began to be 
anxious to be gone. He was beginning to under- 
stand that the risk he ran in the public streets was 
not solely that of being recaptured and condemned 
by the Prince, on the strength of Cossebaude’s power 
of invention. Suppose — he shuddered — we were 
mistaken for Incke by a loyalist mob — what a posi- 
tion for a gentleman of refined habits ! Clearly he 
must seek the Consulate without delay. And yet — 
was it not an additional proof that once there, he 
would be urged immediately to leave a situation so 
complicated ? 

He rose from his chair and studied himself in 
the glass, the little Jew, standing by, observant, with 
his head askew. 

^^How much?” 

Twenty florins.” 

What ! ” Bothfield thrust his hand into his 
pockets and fingered the small handful of loose 
silver that lay there. Something in the Jew’s eye 
made him pensive. What do you mean ? ” 

That is just what I do mean. It is a hard time 
for the poor Hebrew, you see, mein Herr, and when 


—AND MAKES SOME USE OF IT 


8l 


a gentleman comes in from farming in the country 
— a gentleman who has walked all night in beautiful 
thin, patent boots — a gentleman whose clothes are 
torn — Perhaps the police . . 

The Jew’s suspicions were in the market. To 
be handed over to the police with Merkewitz and 
Holseg superseded by the Prince’s orders, and the 
last night’s party hot upon his heels! Anything 
but that, though anything might be, as his fears 
yelped, the risk of encounter with the multitude. 
But he had only a few marks in his pocket, and those 
must be hoarded until such time as he could prove 
his identity under the British flag, and claim his 
property at the Bellevue. 

I haven’t the money, nor anything like it.” A 
sudden thought of a ready opportunity struck him, 
and he changed his tone eagerly. ‘'See — take my 
coat in payment! You are an unmitigated rascal, 
but, as it happens, I am in a hurry.” 

The Jew shook his head, and fresh suspicions 
began to dart in his eyes. The acceptance of his 
demand had brought conviction, and he was not 
going to enter into any doubtful transactions. 

“ No, no — I am only a poor Hebrew, but I have 
still a little brains. I would not have that coat, 
though ” — he eyed it regretfully — “ though it is so 


82 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


lovely a garment, for five hundred marks. But I 
will have the money ! 

He glared at Bothfield and made a threatening 
movement towards the door. Bothfield’s indigna- 
tion carried him to reprisal. 

“No, but you shall learn to blackmail a cus- 
tomer ! ’’ He thrust the fellow back with his hand 
and dashed into the street. 

As luck would have it, a droschke was crawling 
by beside the pavement. Bothfield, with a glimpse 
of the Jew’s face pursuing him, leapt into it and 
ordered the coachman to drive, post-haste, into the 
town. It is possible that, after all, the rascally 
barber had only been playing a game of bluff, and 
that he had no intention of calling the attention of 
the police to either himself or the stranger, but 
Bothfield did not breathe easily till the cab had 
covered the length of the street, and he saw that 
there was no pursuit. One thing was re-assuring, 
and that was that the Jew had evidently not per- 
ceived the dreaded likeness. But then, on the other 
hand, he had probably never seen Gottfried von 
Incke. Any way, the incident had shown that there 
were unsuspected perils lurking in the city, and it 
stood, as a sign-post, to point him to his proper 
refuge. 


—AND MAKES SOME USE OF IT 


83 


The cabman drove on to where the traffic thick- 
ened, and followed the stream until it flowed into 
a humming market-place. Then he stopped, twist- 
ing upon his seat, and queried — 

“Any further?” 

“To the British Consulate.” 

Bothfield leaned back with the relief of a man 
who has overcome temptation, and, still suspicious, 
in spite of the placid appearance of the city, shel- 
tered himself from observation. The driver shook 
the reins to start afresh, and then held back for a 
moment. A peasant girl, with an apron full of 
cabbages, darted laughing under his horse’s nose. 
She was a sturdy-built, brick-complexioned young 
woman, the last in feature to awaken romantic in- 
terest, but her haste set a cluster of brown curls 
waving, as curls had waved round a face in an upper 
story. Bothfield’s resolutions vanished as swiftly 
as she passed, and he called again to the driver — 

“ Oh — ah ! Drive round by the Kellner Gasse 
first, please — slowly.” 

So it was done; and by so slight a trifle the man’s 
life was altered. His spirit was changing already, 
for the eager, impetuous cavalier was most distant 
cousin to the bored and middle-aged prig of the 
day before. He was afraid of his two perils, — how 


84 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


be otherwise when these were the first his life had 
met? — ^but not too afraid to be reckless, and that 
was enormous revolution. It was true that he had 
already served a fair apprenticeship in the field of 
adventure in the incidents of the past four-and- 
twenty hours. But it was surely not the remem- 
brance of what he had undergone that spurred him, 
— he, so lately the unwilling — to the risk of fresh 
complications. Bothfield, sipping for the first 
time at the great magician’s potion, smacked his 
lips and found it good. 

They wound slowly on, at jog-trot pace, into 
the mean streets of the town, and the cab dived 
into the Gasse. At one twist of the way Bothfield 
had a peep at the fa9ade of a half-hidden public 
building, and his wrongs came back to him with 
emphasis as he recognized it as part of the Palace 
of Justice. Let him but get a chance of revenge 
against the perfidious crew who had juggled so 
featly with his Anglo-Saxon person! . . . Then 
the mouldy exterior of the Weissen Hirsch came 
into the field of vision, and other matters were 
crowded out. He motioned the cabman to go at 
walking pace. 

There was, in our hero’s brain, a mob of irreso- 
lutions, and it is possible that it would have led to 


—AND MAKES SOME USE OF IT 


85 


no stronger action than his cricking his neck to 
review a certain window. He had minds to step in, 
nonchalantly, to beg refreshment, to inquire for 
an imaginary person, to make a pretence of hiring 
a room; but none of these inspirations came to 
birth. Instead, opportunity sprang to life, full- 
grown, with the bustle of an opening door and of 
wrangling voices, as his vehicle crawled by. 

The door, as it swung back, disclosed four persons 
in the passage way, and two coarse and raucous 
voices drowned a cultivated one. The fourth mem- 
ber of the party was silent, but Bothfield, peering 
into the gloom, saw the girl of the window with 
distress upon her face, and with hands upraised 
against the churl who was hustling her towards the 
door. With her, a protecting arm upon her girdle, 
was a lean, long-headed man in a woollen cap and 
dressing-gown, with agitated grey hairs and mild 
spectacles askew. He looked like a rabbit among 
foxes, contrasted with the two dirty, sharp-faced 
rascals with whom he was in conflict; and so in- 
efficient a guardian of female loveliness did Both- 
field guess him, that he leapt from the cab with the 
ardour of twenty, and waving the cabman to await 
events, dashed into the melee. 

I assure you I am expecting the money ! Gisela, 


86 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


my little pearl, does not your aged father speak 
the truth? 

Oh, ay, ay ! WeVe heard that tale often ! ” 
said one of the men. Meantime you take up three 
good rooms, and eat and drink like fighting cocks, 
— a precious pair! — and Brother Karl and I may 
whistle for our money. No, no; this is not a place 
of charity. What you pay for, that you have.’’ 

But I have paid already, much more than is 
lawful, I am sure. You are cormorants. Only 
wait until the Count sends, and do not turn us into 
the street, and you shall have more.” 

’Twon’t do, — we have had enough of the two 
of you. Out you go ! ” 

They resumed their hustling, and it was at this 
moment that Bothfield appeared upon the doorstep. 
His ideas of offering help were strong, but inchoate ; 
his amazement, therefore, was great when the old 
man turned to him as if he had been expected, and 
greeted him as a saviour. For the moment he re- 
membered the fatal resemblance and his heart stood 
still; he backed towards the door with an impulse 
of flight, and it was the words which fell upon his 
ears that checked him. 

It is the Count’s messenger ! I knew he would 
send. My dear sir, I am rejoiced to see you; you 


—AND MAKES SOME USE OF IT 


87 


have come in the nick of time to save my daughter 
and me from a most awkward predicament.” 

His assurance had instantaneous effect upon the 
two innkeepers; they fell back in consternation, 
and a smile gleamed through the tears of Gisela. 
The vision intoxicated Mr. Bothfield, and he thrust 
himself forward with the expected air of authority. 

“Exactly: here I am, you see, and at your serv- 
ice.” The other men shrank back yet further, and 
Bothfield followed up his advantage. “Stand away, 
fellows. You shall hear of this! ” 

The man who had been alluded to as Karl as- 
sumed a cringing attitude. 

“ It is a mistake ; the Herr von Radenstein mis- 
took Brother Kurt. For him, as for me, we would 
not have harmed a hair upon his head. Your Ex- 
cellency will assure the Count ” 

“ What I think fit, later. Stand back, I say 
again, and let us pass to the Herr’s room I ” 

The happy combination of wit and chance had 
struck the right note. There was no hesitation in 
Bothfield’s manner, however unsteady his bosom 
might rise, and there was no suspicion elsewhere; 
only dismay and servility on one side, and relief 
upon the other. The gratitude in the old man’s 
face, however, was shadowed in the girl’s by some- 


88 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


thing like apprehension, and Bothfield felt he must 
go warily to work to pick up all the clues he needed. 
At present, though, he walked triumphant, arm- 
in-arm with the old man, wrapped in the authority 
of the unknown Count as in a cloak, and his spirit 
cried loudly at the view of the girl who preceded 
them. For she was all that he had conceived her, 
and more, and the nape of her dainty neck, with 
the brown hair ruffling above it, stirred his blood 
to riot. 

The tavern was a maze of black stairs and pas- 
sages; a damp, dirty place, smelling of sour beer 
and rye-bread. As they wound to the upper story 
Bothfield turned over in his mind the problem of 
these two gentlefolk, — for so their look, and the 
old man’s voice would have proclaimed them with- 
out the prefix to their surname — in so poor and 
dingy a setting. The Weisse Hirsch was the head- 
quarters of the Reformers. Were these two gentle 
souls, then, specimens of the Revolutionary party? 
Not if Cossebaude’s account had spoken truth. 

The old gentleman withdrew his arm at the end 
of a dusk corridor, where a ray of light gleamed 
through a keyhole. He drew back at the door with 
a profound bow, and motioned the Englishman 
forward. The girl had already preceded them. 


—AND MAKES SOME USE OF IT 


89 


Daylight crept into the room through the half- 
opened shutter, and showed the bare floor, a bulg- 
ing ceiling, a ragged green sofa with a table before 
it, and a few crazy chairs. There was a stove un- 
lighted in a corner, and the place felt cold and dis- 
mal. The old man, however, waved his new-found 
friend to a seat with the air of the proprietor of a 
mansion, and the girl hurried to light the fire. 

“ What a piece of opportune good fortune ! I 
do not attempt to disguise from you that we had 
been in a condition of anxiety for some days. We 
have paid these fellows, oh — ample; but the news 
of the Count’s flight made them eager to be rid of 
us. They had barely tolerated us through his de- 
tention. ... I fancy there are many evil things 
that take place here, and they do not care to shelter 
any one who is not too deeply implicated to turn in- 
former. . . . And this is the hiding-place of divine 
liberty! But I have learned much, indeed, since I 
fled from Radenstein.” 

He shook his head sadly, and the girl looked 
round at him as she closed the furnace-door. 

“ If we had but stayed, father ! ” 

“ Impossible, my child. It is only by the Count’s 
goodness that we stand in comparative safety now.” 

The pretty mouth tightened at the corners, and 


90 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


Bothfield caught a muttered — “ The Count’s good- 
ness ! I don’t believe in the Count’s goodness ! ” 

“ Too late to argue about that now,” went on 
the old man. “ But I am forgetting. Gisela, I 
present to you — I suppose there is no harm in men- 
tioning the name among friends ? ” 

“ Oh, not at all,” said Bothfield, wondering what 
was coming. 

“ I thought not ; but the Count warned us to be 
very circumspect. Herr Anton Goldberg, then, — 
the Fraulein Gisela von Radenstein. You should 
know each other, for you are in a manner of speak- 
ing, cousins.” 

“ How so, papa ? ” said Gisela, with a demure 
glance at Bothfield that made his heart leap in the 
midst of his caution and mystification. 

“ Herr Goldberg is the Count’s first cousin once 
removed, not? And you, my child, are the daugh- 
ter of your mother, to whom the Count was 
nephew’s (by marriage) sister’s son. So you see 
it is a clear though distant relationship.” 

Gisela’s eyes twinkled; it was evident that she 
owned a sense of humour. The possession of so 
rare a female virtue stimulated Bothfield’s admira- 
tion. If he had only her quick wit to unravel his 
perplexities! But he stood alone, and he thought 


—AND MAKES SOME USE OF IT 


91 


of the waiting cabman. Who was the Count? 
That was the chief question. Evidently a person of 
influence, since so remote a deputy as his first 
cousin once removed carried all before him. Yet 
a sinister character, for Gisela did not believe in 
him. And what was his messenger to do for these 
two? Merely pay their bill, perhaps. He thrilled 
at the thought of benefacting his new-found rela- 
tions. Then he began to feel his way towards the 
mystery. 

“ Before we come to business,” he said, with 
an ease he did not feel, “please to give me a word 
of explanation as to how you come here. The 
Count was rather pressed for time, you know.” 

“ I thought he told you before ! ” 

“No.” That at least was true; and it seemed 
as if the preceding statement were so also, for it 
passed his audience without comment. 

“ Strange. I had his word for it.” 

“ His word ! ” Gisela’s lip curled. She was not 
at much pain to conceal her aversion to the absent 
power. 

“ My child ! ” The old man looked at her with 
mild reproof. “ I mistook him, no doubt. And 
in that case it is evident that he has left the duty 
of enlightening Herr Goldberg to me. By the 


92 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


way ’’ — with a look of mild surprise at Bothfield’s 
muddied boots and soiled attire — ‘‘ did you have 
any — encounter, coming here? Let me beg of you 
to take off your overcoat, that Gisela may brush 
it for you . . . No, no; I insist/’ 

Bothfield obeyed, the pleasure of surrendering 
his acquired property into the girl’s hands was not 
to be foregone. He answered at random as Gisela 
spread the garment to air before the stove, by way 
of preliminary action. 

Oh dear, no ! Ran for the train, and ah — 
nearly missed it, that’s all.” To himself : I wonder^ 
if I did come by train; and if so from whence?” 
Then aloud : Please continue, Herr von Raden- 
stein.” 

And the old man told his story. 

You know, my friend, I have a little country 
property in Eastern Amalia. Just a half-dozen 
farms and the old castle, adjoining the Count von 
Incke’s shooting estate. That is how the Count 
and I ” 

Bothfield interrupted him with an involuntary 
exclamation. The omnipotent, all-compelling Count 
was Incke, the traitor, and a second time he was 
entangled in his affairs ! To be sure, he might have 
guessed from what Cossebaude had told him of 


—AND MAKES SOME USE OF IT 


93 


Gottfried von Incke’s intrigue among the Reform- 
ers, that it was he who sw^ayed the dealings of men 
in this unpleasant sanctuary. And these two help- 
less creatures were in his hands! It was more 
than ever Bothfield’s charge to fling prudence to 
the winds, and see the matter to its end. He cov- 
ered his ejaculation by a cough, and Radenstein 
went on with his recital. 

We were not only neighbours but friends, you 
understand. The Count retired to his estate shortly 
after the Prince’s marriage, and he looked in upon 
us — Gisela and me — frequently. I remember hear- 
ing a vague rumour then, that he was in bad odour 
at the Court; but, sir, I have no ear for scandal, 
and if a man is my friend I will hear no ill of him.” 

‘Ht is a generosity that has brought you to much 
trouble, father.” 

The old man waved her interruption aside. 

You, my child, are beset by a suspicious and 
doubting spirit, from which I trust the good God 
will presently deliver you. — To continue: I was 
always glad to welcome the Count, the more so as 
I had pleasure in confiding in him my zeal for 
liberty — and she is alas I in this country a wronged 
and captive maiden. 

“ The Count encouraged my aspirations, and 


94 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


through his aid I was enabled to offer shelter to 
divers patriots who were the victims of State per- 
secution. It was a noble work; but it became at 
last suspected by the police, and some six weeks ago 
the Count came to me — it was just before his in- 
carceration on yesterday’s infamous charge, and 
doubtless, had he considered his own safety he 
would have been beyond the frontier — and warned 
me of my danger. Guided by his directions I sum- 
moned Gisela and fled here, where I rejoice to say 
we have been, so far, secure. It is true I could 
wish for more luxurious quarters, not for myself, 
for I am glad to be a confessor in the cause, but 
for this poor child. Still, we are together, and 
free, and, up till to-day, under the Count’s protec- 
tion. He tells me my property is watched, and 
that there is a possibility of its sequestration. But 
he bade me wait, and trust, and all would be well. 
He promised to send a messenger if he were unable 
to come himself, and he has fulfilled that word, 
sir, in your appearance. You may think me timid, 
but I own to you, sir, that to-day’s events, and the 
Count’s prolonged absence, filled me, till your ar- 
rival, with misgiving. He was acquitted yester- 
day; why has he not returned to his friends? ” 
Bothfield could have answered that question, but 


—AND MAKES SOME USE OF IT 


95 


he thought it expedient to hold his tongue. The 
narrative puzzled him not a little : it seemed to him 
from his estimate of Incke’s character, — and oddly 
enough, his brief glimpse of the Prince was mainly 
responsible for that, — and from Gisela’s manner, 
that there was more in the tale than appeared to 
the narrator. The girl had a prejudice; he could 
see that in her curled nostril and her impatient 
foot; and he was ready to swear that it was no 
unjust one. 

Was there some dark and evil plot behind, 
checked in its action by Incke’s enforced flight — a 
plot that required this noisome place for its better 
development, and that had its clue in the black 
secrecy of Incke’s heart? Would the man, who 
had been traitor to his friend and Prince, have any 
compassion for the aged and innocent? Had he 
lured them to their destruction ? Come what might, 
Bothfield, in whose heart was rapture, and courage, 
and an enthusiasm to which it had been stranger 
hitherto, found his place beside Gisela von Raden- 
stein and her father till the clouds should clear. 

There was a very serious obstacle to the plans 
that simmered in his brain; an obstacle that must 
be surmounted if, as he conjectured, the help ex- 
pected from the Count’s messenger was meant to 


96 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


assume a monetary form. It lay in the location 
of the bundle of notes which Bothfield had pro- 
vided for his expedition’s expenses. For the 
money — and, except for a handful of loose silver, 
it represented all the funds he had in Amalia — 
reposed in his baggage at the Hotel Bellevue, within 
the very stronghold of the enemy. The difficulty 
which might ensue if the real messenger appeared 
did not trouble Bothfield so keenly. That might 
be met by courage and assurance, and he was 
strangely confident in his growing powers of 
strategy. But the money — how to get the money? 

Now I look at you/’ Herr von Radenstein was 
saying when he next returned from his reverie, I 
trace a certain likeness to the Count. One can see 
you are his cousin.” 

The daughter looked at him, and for a moment 
there was dismay in Bothfield’s heart, for it seemed 
as if the likeness were to work a second time to his 
undoing. Then his heart jumped as she said: — 

don’t see the least resemblance.” And his 
heart blessed the mysterious power that shows to 
the eyes of women, not what they can see, but what 
they will. Its dispensation in this case seemed to 
betoken a favour that fell on him like water on the 
desert-sand. Yet it did not exhilarate too much 


—AND MAKES SOME USE OF IT 


97 


for him to forget the problems that lay before him, 
and the next moment he found a possible solution 
for the most pressing of them. 

“ Excuse me for a little,” he said, rising, to the 
old man. “ My cab is waiting, and I have to send 
for my luggage.” 

“ What! You are going to stay here? It is for 
us — 1 know it is for us. I knew the Count would 
set our troubles right ! ” 

“ It is not the Count’s doing,” said Bothfield, 
sharply, unable to allow his inspiration to be put to 
Incke’s credit. “ It’s — it’s my own idea.” 

He turned to the door, bareheaded and uncoated 
as he was, and found himself in the passage. A 
silence had fallen upon the room with his last 
words; perhaps the involuntary pique of tone had 
surprised his hearers. If so it had been a welcome 
sound to one, for as he felt his way towards the 
stairs he heard a light footfall behind him, and 
Gisela von Radenstein’s arm touched his sleeve. 

He faced her, and he saw that the door of the 
sitting-room was closed, and that they were alone. 

“ Herr Goldberg — one word. May I ask you 
something ? ” 

“Something? Anything!” The suggestion of 
confidence between them was sweet to Bothfield. 


98 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


Something you will promise not to be offended 
at? But I don't know how it is — your face says I 
can trust you. . . . Are you — are you a very great 
friend of Count Gottfried von Incke?" 

'' I never " Bothfield checked himself. 

He heard the answer that was wanted in her 
anxious voice, and he gave it earnestly, thankful to 
find he was able once more to touch the truth. 

I am not. In fact, I am here to help you of 
my own volition, and because I wish to offer you 
and your father all my service/’ 

‘‘Is that so, and how can it be? You volun- 
teered to the Count, hearing our story, and — I 
scarcely understand. But you relieve me, — oh, 
immensely, for I have a confidence to make to you. 
There — go now, and come back soon, and hear my 
tale, and help me.” 

She vanished, and Bothfield stepped down the 
stairs feeling that the Fates were kind to him. At 
the foot he saw the faces of Brother Kurt and 
Brother Karl hovering dimly before a ground of 
dirty passage and tobacco-smoke; but he ignored 
them and went on to the door. 

The cab was still in waiting, with the driver 
dozing upon his seat, as if his fare's sudden disap- 
pearance were too ordinary a proceeding to keep 


—AND MAKES SOME USE OF IT 


99 


him from a nap. Twice Bothfield called him before 
he awoke, and then he whipped forward to the 
steps, a solid, sturdy fellow, with an honest face 
that confirmed our hero in his resolve. 

He scribbled some lines on a visiting-card, and 
handed to the man. 

“ I am going to stay here, but my luggage is at 
the Hotel Bellevue. This card is a request to the 
manager to deliver up my property to you, but it 
does not state where I am, and I don’t wish it to be 
known. If the police are there inquiring after me, 
say I have sought the shelter of the British Con- 
sulate, and drive there to blind them if they de- 
liver the bags to you. But if you bring the traps 
back safely, and keep a still tongue in your head, 
there will be a twenty-mark piece for you. I must 
trust you for the second condition: Will you give 
me your word ? ” 

The cabman took the card tenderly between 
finger and thumb, looked at it with respect, and 
put it away with care as he gave his answer. 

“ Yes, yes, mein Herr. Trust me. To bring 
your Excellency’s baggage from the Bellevue ! 
And to dodge the police, hey? I don’t love the 
police; what poor, taxed cabman does? So, to 
cheat them ! You can depend that it shall be done.” 
LofC. 


100 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


He drove off, nodding his head over the com- 
mission. Bothfield watched him disappear, and 
wondered how his quest would fare. 

but if Manager Breslauer has been got at 
again ? It all depends if Merkewitz or his successor 
have given a thought to my effects. If they 
haven’t ” 

Bothfield re-entered the inn with the tangle of 
his perplexities weaving itself thickly in his brain. 
At his second stride inside the passage he ran up 
against Karl the innkeeper. The encounter re- 
minded him that he had not yet booked a room, 
and though he did not fancy the Count’s emissary 
would find much difficulty in getting what he 
wanted, he stopped to speak. And then he 
paused, for he saw that the man was about to 
address him. 

Your Excellency is going to stay with us? ” 

I have just sent for my things; yes. I must 
have your best empty room. • . . Did you want to 
speak to me about anything? ” 

If Brother Kurt and I might ” The host 

rubbed his hands obsequiously, and waved towards 
the room of what appeared to be his private den. 
^^And if your honour would.” Then he raised his 
eyes and laid a dirty finger on his lips as his voice 


—AND MAKES SOME USE OF IT 


lOI 


sank. On the Society’s business, and the Count’s, 
your Excellency understands.” 

There were fresh complications impending; that 
Bothfield foresaw. But he saw, too, that there 
were opportunities imminent in which he might 
gain some of the information he needed so sorely, 
and risky as the venture might be, it behoved him 
to make it. He was anxious to get back to his 
promised interview with the Fraulein von Raden- 
stein, to learn where her peril lay and how she 
wished him to help her. But he choked back the 
desire, and as Karl showed the way he followed it, 
to find Kurt within, and to see the door closed 
carefully behind him for the interview. 


CHAPTER VI 


THE GREY OVERCOAT 

Brother Kurt was seated at a high desk, rub- 
bing a stubbly chin with one hand while he thumbed 
some greasy letters with the other. The room was 
incredibly dirty and stuffy; the window-chinks 
pasted up with paper, and the iron stove crackling 
with the force of the fire in its bowels. Brother 
Karl locked the door cautiously and placed a stool 
for the visitor. 

^‘Your Excellency,’' he began, ‘‘will no doubt 
have understood the situation. The unfortunate 
misconception on the part of the Herr von Raden- 
stein — brought about, it is true, by a slight mis- 
understanding of our intentions ” 

Kurt interrupted him impatiently. Bothfield, 
surveying them both with an anxious eye, cata- 
logued Karl not less coward than toady, but Kurt 
a rascal of stiffer backbone, and, if signs read 
true, of fiercer disposition. Accordingly, he lent 
attention to Brother Kurt. 

“All that to come later. Brother. The question 
is — what message from the Count? Where is he? 


102 


THE GREY OVERCOAT 


103 


Will he return? And then — to start with — I mean 
no offence to your Excellency, but the password. 
Where is the password ? ” 

For a second Bothfield was still, his tongue 
cleaving, conscious of its impotency, to the roof 
of his mouth. He was aware that Kurt’s eye was 
upon him with malicious intent. He granted that 
the innkeeper did not forgive his arrival. His 
relief was great when he heard Karl come to his 
assistance. 

“ Pshaw, Brother ! Between ourselves, the Count 
never made much of passwords. What stronger 
sign could man need than his cousin, Herr Gold- 
berg ? And, by the nose upon his face, here he is ! ” 

“ Well, to tell truth,” said Bothfield, thrusting 
forward the ready lie, “ Karl hit it, exactly. The 
Count never gave me the countersign. Deuce take 
it, there was too much to think about ! The Prince 
is on the Count’s track, anxious to fight a duel with 
him. The Government are ready to bring the 
Palace about their ears to prevent it. Between the 
two my cousin has enough to do, without troubling 
his brain or mine with passwords.” 

“ But where is he? ” said Kurt. His attack was 
checked, but his brows lowered, and he chewed a 
pen-stump in angry fashion. 


104 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


To say that he had been forcibly deported with- 
out (as Bothfield hoped) possibility of return, was 
to throw the Radensteins’ defences open to the 
enemy. To promise immediate return was im- 
politic, seeing that if there were delay in getting 
himself and his charges clear of the Weissen 
Hirsch, suspicions might become uncontrollable. 
Bothfield took a middle course. 

I don’t know. The Count has the heels of both 
parties. Merkewitz’ men began to take him to the 
frontier. That I know because in our last inter- 
view in the House of Detention ” — ^he watched for 
acceptance of this detail and saw it, to his joy — 
‘‘ we were interrupted by the entrance of the escort. 
But I followed up the departure, which took place 
at dusk last night, and I know that the Count es- 
caped. Unfortunately, it was in the forest on the 
road to Muspringen, some fifteen miles away, I 
fancy; and I was not able to be sufficiently close 
to see in what direction he disappeared into the 
thicket. There is no doubt, from previous informa- 
tion I received, that the Count, proceeding with 
great caution, means to return here before long.” 

'' H’m ! ” Kurt abstracted the pen-stump from 
his mouth, and drummed on the table with it. 
‘‘Very fine for the Count. He expects us to wait 


THE GREY OVERCOAT 


105 

his good pleasure, and to run hither and thither at 
his bidding, and yet he lets himself be carted away 
at a time like this, when everything’s in expecta- 
tion. Why don’t he fight the Prince, and slit his 
weasand for him ? ” 

Because the Prince has a circle of young men 
in his service, who have sworn to kill or be killed, 
should anything happen to their master. My good 
cousin might overcome in duel, but he would stand 
a bad chance in being hunted down like a mad dog.” 

^^Ah! And that’s how it always is. We are to 
make a secret society to extirpate Ferdinand and 
the corruptions of his Court — very good. We must 
all follow the leadership of the Count von Incke — 
not so good. We are to meet — only his arrest has 
postponed the date, and we have to bide till he re- 
turns — and choose an instrument for the killing of 
the Prince, by ballot. But the Count of Incke takes 
no open part, and the Count of Incke is not to be 
included in the ballot! The Count of Incke comes 
and goes secretly and pulls the strings; when the 
thing is done, and the man that does it is shot, and 
the Weissen Hirsch is raided by the police, and I 
and Karl sent to road-sweep in chains, the Count 
of Incke will be the innocent man, looking on from 
a very long way off. Bah ! ” 


io6 the whirligig 

'' Brother ” said Karl. 

Ach, yes, yes ! ’’ Kurt turned upon him in a 
fury. You're a fool like all the rest. You believe 
all the Count tells — let’s see, is it Chancellor or 
Lord Chief Justice you’ll be, when the good time 
comes? We had our own plans before the Count 
came, and very well they worked. Now there are 
great things, fine assassinations, and battues of 
police, and everything else to make your brains dizzy 
and your senses fly, afoot. A republic on the top 
of that. I don’t believe the Count cares a curse for 
the Reformers. He has a private spite, and he uses 
us as catspaws, to gratify it. Ach, yes ! ” 

All this was illumination to Bothfield : he would 
not have missed it for worlds. It was the con- 
firmation that he needed of the Count’s duplicity, 
for there was that in the innkeeper’s accent, rascal 
though he was, that rang true. It was a fresh 
spur, had any been needed, to his resolution on be- 
half of the two souls above stairs. He waited, 
watching Kurt’s explosion, and Karl’s agony at its 
imprudence. 

But he has suffered ” 

Not on our account. Stabs in the dark at the 
Princess’ virtue don’t make us free. And then 
again, speaking of women! What the devil does 


THE GREY OVERCOAT 107 

he mean by foisting this penniless old dotard and 
his daughter upon us? The old fool should be in 
his grave by now; there’s none of the stuff of our 
men in him, useless, addlepated aristocrat. As for 
the girl — I tell you we have enough upon our hands 
without adding ” — he broke into an ugly accusa- 
tion. Let the Count keep his own mistr ” 

He stopped: not of his own free will, but be- 
cause Bothfield’s fist smashed into his face, and 
he toppled off his stool, his shoulder splintering the 
window. Karl wrung his hands in terror. 

Imbecile, to speak the things to the Count’s 
own cousin! Donnerwetter, we are ruined men!” 

He was not heeded, for there was a furious 
rough-and-tumble going on, and all he could do 
was to cram himself into the smallest convenient 
corner, and whine his dismay. Kurt had responded 
to the attack with foaming mouth, and his fingers 
tore at the Englishman’s neckband. They crashed 
on to the floor, with the stool hurrying to join, and 
with ink, and confusion, and hoarse execrations 
thick about them. 

‘‘You — scoundrel!” said Bothfield. His pru- 
dence had vanished in a flash, and his blood was 
boiling. “ Retract — you dirty-mouthed blackguard.” 

He had got in a second fist before they fell, and 


io8 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


Brother Kurt’s eyes were too full of sense of injury 
to do their proper service. Consequently his right 
arm fell into bondage, and Bothfield pinned it while 
he straddled across the prostrate foe, and by violent 
throttling, twisting and wriggling his neck mean- 
while to escape similar treatment, he succeeded in 
instilling recognition of his fighting merits (he had 
never known their extent till that moment), into the 
minds of two astonished people. 

So, pig-dog ! ” he said, glaring at the face be- 
low him. I will teach you to let your tongue run 
where you please. Have you had enough? ” 

. G’nug!'^ gurgled Kurt, with starting eye- 
balls. “ Ach, yes, — quite enough. I — had — no idea 
your Excellency would take offence for the Count 
Gottfried — von Incke. Let me — up, mein Herr.” 

For the Count of Incke! There was certainly 
a delicious irony in the mazes of misconception in 
which Mr. Bothfield, illused and pacific British 
subject, was now wandering. He was ready to 
disclaim the notion with renewed warmth, till he 
remembered that he would be a better defender of 
Gisela von Radenstein if he allowed its existence. 
Besides, there was a subtlety in the concealing of 
the true motive from the world outside his bosom, 
which pleased his fancy. 


THE GREY OVERCOAT 


109 


He loosened his grip, and the purple died out of 
Brother Kurt’s face and changed to a mottled 
pallor. Bothfield stood up, and his enemy followed 
slowly, fingering in a furtive way at his throat, his 
cheeks, and his bruises, as if to assure himself that 
he was still whole. He was beaten, and his atti- 
tude, as he shrank into the further corner of the den, 
acknowledged it better than words, but there was 
a venomous look in his eyes, as they blinked from 
behind their swollen pouches. The fire that 
smouldered in them had something worse than 
anger in it; but Bothfield had no patience to read 
what it portended. 

Karl, who was on the verge of tears, clasped his 
hands in frenzied entreaty to the victor. 

Your Excellency will not pass this matter on 
to the Count ? Oh, it is easy to see your Excellency 
is the Count Gottfried’s most noble kinsman! So 
would he have worked — so, exactly. But you will 
not speak of us, gracious Herr? Brother Kurt 
means no ill — no ill; he suffers merely from a dis- 
ordered stomach, and it makes him ” 

Irritable,” said Bothfield. Just so. It de- 
pends on what follows as to how I report affairs to 
the Count, on his arrival.” 

, The Count’s clever enough,” mumbled Kurt 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


1 10 

from his corner. “ He knows quite well I don’t 
love him. Still, I was mistaken in all my words, of 
course.” 

The interview ended there. Bothfield waved to 
the door with dignity, and Karl, scraping, opened it. 
Mr. Bothfield passed out with a forgivable swagger, 
and found himself once more in the passage, with 
the street door open beyond him. 

To his immense joy, and also to his surprise, he 
saw the faithful cabman wheel to the stoop at the 
moment, with the portmanteaux reposing in the 
body of the carriage. The man saluted with a tri- 
umph almost equal to Bothfield’s. 

“ There they are, mein Herr ! Quite right, I 
trust?” 

“ Quite right, certainly,” said Bothfield. “ But 
didn’t they offer any — any objection ? ” 

“ Objection, Herr Je! It was all the other way 
about. I sent the Herr’s card in to the Herr man- 
ager, and he came out flying. ‘Take them!’ he 
said. ‘ Take everything ! But for God’s sake let 

me hear no more of ’ ” He stopped with an 

assumed blank expression. “ I forget the name, 
mein Herr.” 

“ That will do,” said Bothfield, anxious at the 
thought of how near the secret of his identity might 


THE GREY OVERCOAT 


III 


have been to escaping into the ears of the house. 

Very many thanks. You have earned your money. 
Keep a still tongue, now, about the business.’' 

“Yes, yes: trust me,” said the cabman, nodding 
his head delightedly over the reward. The worthy 
fellow drove off in an ecstasy at his achievement, 
which Bothfield’s instructions and munificence mag- 
nified in his simple mind. “ Trust me, ja, ja! ” he 
said as he disappeared. 

Mr. Bothfield took a bag in either hand, and 
sought the crazy staircase. He was met at the 
bottom by Karl, Kurt having presumably gone to 
bathe his wounds, relieved of his burden, and es- 
corted to a guest-chamber, w^hich he observed with 
pleasure was situated next to the sitting-room of 
Herr von Radenstein. He locked the bags into ,the 
room without even a sigh of disgust at the frowsi- 
ness of his new apartment, and rapped at the next 
door. 

It was opened by Gisela von Radenstein, after 
the rasp of a yielding bolt. 

“ Come in,” she said. “ How fortunate you have 
come now ! Father has just gone to order our din- 
ner — indeed there is nothing I care to eat in this 
place, but we must keep up an appearance — and we 
can speak together.” 


I 12 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


She was bewitchingly pretty, and she looked at 
the man with a child-like trust which was incompar- 
able. It appealed, not as her beauty appealed, to 
the side of him that was ready to fling itself at all 
the world in her behalf, to reach at heights of valour 
all unsealed .hitherto, for her; but to a ^eper emo- 
tion that^ restrained him by a conviction" of his un- 
worthiness. The dull and sordid room 'waj^ a poor 
setting, but she flashed in it like a gem in the sun- 
light; and as she stood with her back Jto^the low 
window*, and he-r head add hair, f rained, ^us„ iiPthe 
daylight, the last remnant of Bothfield thq ^Klettante 
was sloughed off and cast away. Yet l^e could not 
have told anything of the process, a quicken- 

ing of the pulses, and the ache of a vague desire. 

You must tell me your trouble, Fraulein,’’ said 
he. ''You need to be assured, I think, that I am no 
friend of Count Gottfried von Incke. I swear to 
that. I cannot explain to you now, but if you will 
tell your story first, I will follow, if opportunity 
permits, with mine.’' 

" You make me oddly curious,” said Gisela. " If 
I were not in such a hurry I should insist upon your 
turn coming first. As it is, be seated, mein Herr, 
and listen to me out of your kindness. (Oh yes, 
you are very kind. Any one can see that. . . ^ 


THE GREY OVERCOAT 1 1 3 

Wie? . . . Nonsense. . . . There! See how you 
waste the precious time.) 

Herr Goldberg, you must begin by not believing 
a word of what my dear father says about the 
Count. It is all the Count’s cunning that makes 
father think he is a patriot. He puts on the sem- 
blance of it for his own bad ends.” 

I know.” 

He came down to his estates after the scandal 
at the Court. I heard it all from the servants, but 
my father would listen to nothing — and at first he 
did not come near Radenstein, or trouble his head 
about us at all. He knew, of course, that my father 
was full of his ideas of liberty. Everybody knows 
that; the Prince knows it; Count Merkewitz knows 
it. It was all quite visionary and harmless ; it would 
be impossible for my father to encourage revolt and 
bloodshed, and his only conception of the worship 
of freedom was an artistic one. He had a beautiful 
statue and wreathed it with flowers, and made lovely 
little verses about doves and olive-branches. He 
had done it all his life, and I remember Prince Fer- 
dinand coming to see us once when he was a very 
young man, and that my father told him all about 
it, and showed him and the Chancellor the statue. 
He read them his poetry too, and it is very unkind 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


II4 

to repeat it, but it is quite true — they — only — 
yawned! And the Prince sent a bouquet after- 
wards, ‘ for the goddess.’ Though ” She 

stopped, and blushed, and went on again with haste 
and confusion. “ It was not until I had met 
the Count at a neighbouring Rittergutshesitzer’s 
house, that he came to see my father, and it was 
after that again that he put on the pretence of join- 
ing in father’s dreams. ... Yes, I know; the 
Count’s plots are. reality, but my father never was, 
and never will be, more than a visionary. ... It 
was because I would not have anything to do with 
him. ... It is the truth. ... I hated him al- 
ways, from the beginning ; if I did not know he was 
wicked by any other sign, I should guess it from his 
face. He made love to me ” 

She stopped again, with frightened eyes. 

“ The hound! ” said Bothfield. 

“ He wanted to marry me, but he was too wise 
to go first to my dear father, knowing that if I only 
breathed a word of my antipathy to his project, 
hope of his consent would be gone. So he tried 
first to persuade me; always with that detestably 
sinister smile of his. Always, too, with a half-sneer, 
as if I were sure to drop into his power very soon. 
But I would not ! I would not ! And then, at last. 


THE GREY OVERCOAT 1 1 S 

when he saw his pretty, hollow speeches were no 
good, he threatened me. There was disaster, he 
said, to people who opposed him. ... It was true 
enough, for it was afterwards that he persuaded 
father to hide the men of whom he told you, and we 
had to fly away from Radenstein in the night, and 
take refuge in this dreadful place. I believe, some- 
times, that the Count invented our danger altogether, 
to get us here, helpless, absolutely in his power. 
Certainly there was nobody to see if what he said 
were true, and it was he who came, apparently as a 
great friend who risked much in doing it^ to give 
the alarm. 

“ ... I do not know — I dread to think — what 
might have happened after we came here, but that 
the day after our flight the Count was arrested by 
order of the Government. Now they say he is free 
again, and I implore you, Herr Goldberg — I implore 
you to help us to escape from him ! ” 

She clasped her hands in gesture of petition. 
Bothfield curbed himself to speak with a certain 
moderation. 

“Help you, Fraulein! It is all I am here for. 
I swear to you I have no other purpose. It is about 
to be my most earnest endeavour to remove you and 
your father to a place of safety. If it were that 


ii6 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


your father was deluded as to the danger, it would 
be the very simplest matter in the world. Let me 
only find out the truth, and you shall return home 
immediately. Or if not — oh yes, I will find a way 
out of the trouble, whatever happens.’’ 

'' But how are you here for no other purpose ? ” 
insisted Gisela. Her fear was dropping off her like 
a mantle, so infectious was Bothfield’s courage. 
She seemed to cast the burden upon him as her pro- 
tector: the Count became a dim and distant bogie 
in the face of so much assurance. Her lips parted 
with curiosity. 

Bothfield hesitated. There was something too 
intimate in the story of the face at the window to 
please her, he reflected, at this stage of their ac- 
quaintance, but he could tell her all the rest, and 
leave the impulse which made him burst from the 
cab into the fray to bear the full responsibility. 

He began at the beginning. 

‘‘ To start with,” he said, my name is Francis 
Bothfield.” 

Ach ! ” said Gisela with wide, round eyes. 

And what genius then, to be Herr Anton Gold- 
berg too ! ” 

So the story was told. It was said modestly, 
because Bothfield was aware that it was no heroic 


THE GREY OVERCOAT 


II7 


record ; indeed, his memory still tingled at the name 
of Captain Cossebaude. But he recited it with 
truth, which is not the common habit of lovers. 
There are two pitfalls digged for these unwary 
when they recount their actions to the well-beloved ; 
a boastfulness, to court admiration (but it may be 
its own undoing) ; or a depreciation, which has a 
surname, artfulness, whereby tender feelings are 
urged from pity onwards. It is to our hero’s credit, 
again, that he stepped between the two. 

He had not laid too much stress upon the likeness, 
rather he had emphasized the overcoat that had con- 
tributed to his ill-fortunes. He became aware to- 
wards the end of the recital, which was interspersed 
with question, exclamation, and explanation too 
many to set down here, that Gisela was suppressing 
extreme excitement with difficulty. Her comment, 
when he ended, was not upon the strangeness of the 
narrative, but upon a minor fragment of it only. 

“ It was not your coat at all — and I brushed it 
so scrupulously. . . . Stop, don’t speak for a min- 
ute. The Count’s overcoat! Did you sew paper 
inside the lining ? ” 

She darted to the chair before the stone, and held 
out the garment. 

“ It crackles,” she said. 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


Il8 

“ Of course it does,” exclaimed Bothfield. “ I 
remember. Biite sehr, Fraulein. ... A pair of 
scissors ! ” 

He snipped, and Gisela held the coat, their heads 
touching almost over the work. He had the fever 
with which a man nears a discovery, but it permitted 
to exist, beside it, the knowledge that her hair once 
brushed his forehead, and that her breath, fragrant 
as English meadows, was upon his cheek. To the 
question of what Gisela felt at the juxtaposition of 
their busy brains, only those who know the subtle 
heart of woman may answer. Perhaps the intoxica- 
tion of a shared confidence had its effect upon her 
demure maidenhood. 

They ripped the lining of the coat, and an en- 
closure fell to the floor. Bothfield picked it up, 
tore its cover eagerly, and then looked in disgust. 

“ Love letters ! ” he said. “ The Count’s love- 
letters ! Pah ! ” 

“ Nonsense,” said Gisela, tiptoeing to see, and 
holding out her hand. “ It is impossible. No 
woman would — could — write a — such a letter to the 
Count. I know, because I’m one, and I couldn’t.” 
It was irresistible logic. “ And the Count never 
would — Oh, oh, Herr Goldberg, — that is to say Mr. 
Bothfield — don’t you see? The missing letters ! ” 


THE GREY OVERCOAT 


II9 

She pointed to the heading of a sheet, which 
began with a flourish addressed to " the Most Ex- 
cellent Baroness Amelia Sophia von Kirtschoff.” 
They read the page together, till a sentence came 
that made Both field frown, and take the reading 
to himself. Gisela pouted. 

“ Just when it was getting interesting,” she said. 
“ Let me see.” 

“ Impossible : it’s scandalous . . . shocking . . . 
' in absolute confidence and candour ’ — oh ! the 
villain ! ” He read on, and Gisela’s mouth tight- 
ened. “ Lies, lies, lies ! ” said Bothfield suddenly, 
crumbling the sheet in his indignation. “ Oh, no, 
you couldn’t read it, Fraulein; you wouldn’t under- 
stand it if you did. But these are, beyond a doubt, 
the missing letters that would prove the Count’s 
guilt. The question is, how would you suggest to 
make use of them ? ” 

The incipient sulk disappeared, for Gisela was 
saved by the flattery implied in the question as ad- 
dressed to her. She wrinkled her pretty brow. 

“ If the Count were convicted of treason, he 
would be shut up safely in a fortress for ever and 
for ever, out of everybody’s way. . . . The letters 
must go to the Chief of Police.” 

“ I will take them myself,” said Bothfield. “ It’s 


120 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


true that my last interview with Herr Holseg — ^but 
everything is capable of explanation now. They 
will be delivered, the Count re-arrested, and in com- 
mon gratitude, Fraulein Gisela, the police will be 
bound to release you and yours from the present 
situation. We are astonishingly fortunate in this 
discovery. There is only one thing that is awk- 
ward. The Count must be in such a stew about the 
coat that he will risk anything to return to Amalia 
to trace it. We must take action at once.” 

Gisela looked into his face, and seemed to weigh 
the matter carefully. 

“ I will take the letters,” she said. “ The risk is 
too great for you. The Prince is hasty; if his men 
took you there would be trouble and danger for 
you, and delay for all of us. I know of a way by 
which one can creep out unobserved; Lieschen — 
.that’s the girl that lights the fires — showed it once 
to me, and told me I should use it. It’s through 
the sculleries; a cellar-flap that comes upon a little 
blind alley. If I am arrested for my father’s mis- 
fortunes, well ! that will only make the mission easier 
than before. But you — if the Count and his spies 
have traced the overcoat to you, they are not likely, 
if they meet you, to let you get to the Chief of 
Police.” 


THE GREY OVERCOAT 


I2I 


“ And supposing they are already upon us ? Do 
you think, Fraulein, you will be secure? It is mad- 
ness,” argued Bothfield. 

Gisela snatched the letters, and put them into the 
bodice of her dress. 

“ Now I have them safe,” she said in defiance. 

She had indeed ; for Bothfield could no more have 
laid rude hands upon that sanctuary than he could 
have refrained from admiration of her resolution. 

The tide of battle was to the weak, but how the 
issue would have resulted, they were not to know. 
The tete-d-tete in the little wretched room that had 
now won lasting place within two memories, was 
interrupted by a scuffle in the passage. 

Bothfield flew to the door, with a warning to 
Gisela to keep away. He suspected attack, and he 
feared either the arrival of the real Anton Goldberg, 
or of the Count of Incke. He picked up, as he 
went, a sturdy oaken staff which was the property 
of Herr von Radenstein. It made a handy weapon, 
and its weight, as it swung from his grip, head 
downwards, was formidable. 

The dirty passage showed, at first, as a black 
tunnel with a glimmer at the far end, and it took 
Bothfield a second or two before he could see what 
was happening at his feet. There was a writhing 


122 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


mass upon the boards, and a dim figure, hovering, 
planted fists upon it with dull thuds as it groaned 
and struggled. The darkness cleared; and then 
Bothfield, with a gasp of horror, clapped-to the 
door behind him, and dashed at the assailant. 

Kurt, the innkeeper, the froth of ungovernable 
rage again upon his mouth, was battering the Herr 
von Radenstein with a frenzy of blows; growls, as 
of a wild beast, were in his throat ; his hair bristled ; 
it was evident he was for the time no less than a 
madman. The poor old man, who had fallen at 
the first onslaught, was trying feebly to ward off 
the fists. Fortunately for him, his skull was pro- 
tected by the woolly cap which was drawn over his 
ears ; otherwise he must have been speedily stunned, 
or killed outright. 

Brother Kurt gave a hoarse cry when he saw 
Bothfield, and giving up the assault upon the old 
man, turned to him. He was past words, but he 
made a second brute noise, as he flung himself 
upon him. 

'' Stand back ! said Bothfield, whirling the 
oaken staff. Drop your hands, or I shall do you 
an injury.’^ 

The answer was the clap of clenched fingers on 
his jaw. The innkeeper’s bared teeth grinned 


THE GREY OVERCOAT 


123 


within a foot of his face; Bothfield saw the red 
light of passion in his eyes, and saw a fleck of foam 
fly from his lips. It was, perhaps, the tempest, 
which, checked at its outburst in the little room 
below, had now loosed itself with increased fury. 

Bothfield jumped back, the shock of pain upon 
him. The man’s arms were waving like a windmill. 

“ Stop ! ” he warned once more. 

No answer; the figure seemed to crouch for an- 
other spring. Bothfield lifted the stick, and 
brought it down with all his strength upon the low- 
ered head. A pause on either side followed a sound 
which resembled the thud of a mallet upon wood, 
and Brother Kurt dropped like an ox on to the 
dusty boards. His head, as he fell, struck the toe 
of Bothfield’s advanced boot. 

Herr von Radenstein was on hands and knees 
by this time, and it was to him that the conqueror 
first turned, striding across the prostrate man to 
lift the old man to his legs again. They were a 
trembling and insecure support, and Bothfield held 
him by the arm while he gathered himself together 
after his escape. 

“Are you much injured, sir? ” he said anxiously. 
He was thankful that Gisela had obeyed orders im- 
plicitly, and was cut off from the scene by the closed 


124 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


doors. At the same time there was perturbation 
in his mind. Who knew what disaster this new 
complication might forerun? 

Herr von Radenstein leaned against the dirty 
wall and covered his eyes with his hand. 

“No, no; bruised, I think, and a good deal 
shaken, no worse. But you came in the hour of 
need, mein Herr, and I owe my preservation a sec- 
ond time to you. ... A minute later, and the 
ruffian would have finished my body, without a 
doubt.’^ 

“ How did it happen ? ’’ said Bothfield. The re- 
covery surprised him; his own jaw felt acutely 
sore, and he knew by it that the assault had been 
as bad as it looked. The woollen cap, however, 
and a threefold knitted comforter had made a 
sturdy armour. Herr von Radenstein was bruised, 
dazed, and shaken, but no bones were broken, and 
there were no injuries that a short time would not 
suffice to cure. The solid Amalian temperament 
was already recovering from the shock. 

“ He was listening and watching at the door, 
eye to keyhole, the villain. . . . The door that hid 
my daughter . . . my daughter. Why did the 
Count bid me to bring her to this den of thieves? ’’ 
A piteous tear trickled down the old cheek. “ I — I 


THE GREY OVERCOAT 


125 


fell upon him at the outrage — it made my head reel 
to see him ; I forgot that I was no longer the Raden- 
stein of my youth. You saw the rest. But ah! 
Gisela — Gisela, my pretty treasure, to what misery 
has not your unhappy father condemned you? I 
thank God, sir, that in the strange absence of the 
Count, you are here to take your place beside us. 
I am no guardian for a young girl : I acknowledge 
it with shame. As for divine Liberty, surely she 
turns her back upon such haunts as these, and seeks 
rather those rose gardens and terraces where I wor- 
shipped her so long. Here I forget all, save that 
I am an old, feeble man, and that my child and I 
are in the midst of thieves and ruffians. If the 
Count would but come ! ” 

“ I am in the Count’s place,” said Bothfield 
quickly. “ We must discuss what steps are to be 
taken immediately; there is much to think of now, 
but I can hope to free you from your difficulties 

before many hours. Meanwhile ” 

He was about to turn to the fallen man, when 
the door opened and Gisela let light upon the scene. 

“ I waited,” she began, and then forgot her sen- 
tence at sight of the tableau. “ Father ! Are you 
ill? Come — come into the room, and let me see 
what it is that makes you look so white and shaken. 


126 


iTHE WHIRLIGIG 


Have you had a fall ? Have you — Mercy ! 
What’s that upon the floor ? ” 

She might well ask the question; it was one that 
Bothfield, with a growing iciness at heart, was put- 
ting to himself at the moment. He knelt on the 
boards, and the light, streaking from the smeared 
window of the sitting-room, came sulkily past the 
faded green furniture, the rusty stove and mouldy 
walls, to bring the answer. Gisela, the vision of 
young and lovely life, bent towards the silent inn- 
keeper. Radenstein, in whom was life-in-age, sup- 
ported himself by a hand upon the wall, as he 
looked too. A stillness, deeper than ordinary, fell 
upon the remote passage: a stillness that seemed 
to hush every sound but the hurried breathing of 
the three, and the scamper of the rats behind the 
wainscot. No one stirred, and least of all did the 
man upon whom they gazed attempt to alter the 
situation. He lay quiet, his head turned on one 
side, his teeth still bared, and his eyes insufficiently 
veiled by lids that neither winked nor closed. 

Bothfield moved fii'st, tearing open the waist- 
coat and feeling for a heart-beat, staring at the 
half-shut eyes, clutching desperately to see if the 
pulse still throbbed. Then he became aware that 
Gisela’s terror-stricken face was watching his ac- 


THE GREY OVERCOAT 


127 


tions. He sprang to his feet, and with a wordless 
entreaty bade her shut the door once more between 
them. He turned to the old man as it closed. 

“ The fellow is stone dead,” he said. 


CHAPTER VII 


THREE DOORS AND THE COUNT GOTTFRIED VON 
INCKE 

The pause that came after BothfielTs words was 
not a long one. It was broken by a whimper from 
the old man, to whom the new catastrophe was al- 
together overwhelming. He wrung his hands and 
moaned, looking from the corpse to the quick. 

Dead ! ’’ he said. ‘‘ I was full of rage against 
him a moment ago, full of wrath and anger. Dead ! ’’ 
I wish my arm had not hit so hard,’' said Both- 
field, still kneeling and gazing, with the awe of a 
sentient man, upon his handiwork. God ! I never 
thought to kill a man.” He dropped the limp wrist 
and watched the hand fall, its fingers curving claw- 
like, palm upwards, to the boards. 

The hurrying thoughts surged across his brain; 
he hardly dwelt, in face of crowding complications, 
upon the caprice of Fate, that had turned him, the 
child of indifference, to a thing of blood and vio- 
lence, and all in the whirl of a too ready cudgel. 
The stupefaction with which he had looked upon 
the innkeeper’s body passed away, jostled out of 


12S 


THREE DOORS AND THE COUNT 


129 


sight by an angry fear of the calamity that might 
be swift to follow. A flash of justification assured 
him that Brother Kurt had met with no more than 
his deserts. There was satisfaction, too, in the 
thought that, if he had heard what was in the air 
behind the closed door, it was well that death had 
come to silence him. Then the need of action 
stirred the troubled waters of the thinker’s mind, 
with Gisela, Gisela, and again Gisela, topping every 
crest. 

He looked down the passage. The dull, gloomy 
place was still empty, and still silent, disturbed only 
by his presence and Radenstein’s. 

“ The first thing to be done is to get it out of 
sight before any one comes,” Bothfield said. “ If we 
are seen — if Karl should come, or any other of the 
creatures that lurk here — there will be the devil to 
pay, Herr von Radenstein.” 

“ We are utterly ruined,” said Radenstein, in 
piteous accents. “ The Reformers will avenge their 
man, and we — between the Government and their 
enemies — where shall we be? Not even the Count 
can help us now.” 

“ The more need, then, for us to bestir ourselves,” 
said Bothfield, with wrinkled brow. 

He took a pace down the passage, and a pace up 


130 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


again. There was not a cranny in which to hide 
a fly. A sound echoed below stairs, faint and dis- 
tant, stirring with the slam of a door, and the clatter 
of tongues and beer-mugs, and it spurred him to a 
fleet movement. 

Mr. Bothfield dashed the key into the lock of his 
room, unfastened it, and threw it open as he darted 
back to the innkeeper. He grasped him by the arm- 
pit and collar, and swung, rather than dragged, him 
into the room. Then he shut the door, and found 
that the alarm had propelled Herr von Radenstein 
after him. They both breathed relief when the key 
creaked upon the inner side of the door. 

The room was lined with worm-eaten panelling 
from floor to ceiling, an arrangement which inten- 
sified its forbidding look, and made the eyes that 
scanned it search anxiously for some moments. 
Then Bothfield sprang across the room, to snatch 
with eager fingers at a cupboard crack. A deep, 
dirt-encrusted recess showed itself unwillingly to 
the light of day. 

It is the very spot,’’ he said. The fellow Karl 
showed it to me for my clothes, but in all this wood- 
work I feared I had lost its whereabouts. It will 
do. A hiding-place is what we want, and Tve no 
fear of any one missing the man for many hours 


THREE DOORS AND THE COUNT 131 

to come. He will lie there as safe as possible ; there 
is ample space.’' 

He stooped to lift the body to its corner, and as 
he moved he spoke over his shoulder to the old man. 

There is nobody coming after all, sir, and you 
had better take your opportunity. If you will slip 
into your own room now and reassure your daugh- 
ter, it will serve us all.” 

Ach yes, I go,” said Radenstein. My poor 
Gisela! There was enough misery in her face at 
the signs of my distress, and now ” 

‘^You’ll tell her all?” said Bothfield. ^H’m— 
it wasn’t — there’s no blood upon my hands in the 
true meaning of the phrase. It was no murder.” 

My daughter knows how to honour her father’s 
defender, friend,” said the old man proudly. It 
is a misfortune, incurred on our behalf, and she will 
understand. But dear God! will she think, as I, 
of the horror of this poor wretch hurried from his 
sins to his Maker? ” 

He unlocked the door and passed through, and 
Bothfield fastened it again while he took his pre- 
cautions. The bodyi in its dusky hole, was well 
hidden, but there was no bolt or fastening to be 
found with which to secure the door. Bothfield 
decided, after consideration of the advisability of 


132 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


barring it with the bed or a chair, that it would be 
safer to leave such doubtful defences alone, and to 
trust to the obscurity of the cupboard among its 
many panels. He scrutinized the crack from every 
corner of the room, and was at last obliged to leave 
it, doubtfully aware that only his knowledge made 
it so apparent to the gaze. There were a hundred 
other crevices in the woodwork, which gaped and 
bulged on all sides ; the cupboard was, as he assured 
himself over and over again, quite indistinguishable 
among them. Kurt knew of it, of course, and 
doubtless the others, but so long as it did not scream 
the secret at them, did not intrude itself violently 
upon notice, he hoped that it might haply remain 
unexplored. In this day of chance Luck was all 
for which he dared to pray. 

He knelt to his bags, and unstrapped them to get 
at a clasp-knife, which was the only weapon he 
could lay hands upon. He thrust, too, a handful of 
money into his trousers pocket, and he jammed all 
the letters and papers that he could not put into his 
pocket-book ruthlessly into the stove. There were 
still his initials upon toilet gear and linen, but there 
was no means of destroying them, and, to be sure, 
they were of a modest size and legibility. Then 
he returned to Gisela. 


THREE DOORS AND THE COUNT 


133 


The girl was in acute distress. She had been in 
an agony during their absence, and she stood now 
with pale face and wet eyes against her father’s 
breast, though more as if seeking consolation than 
defence. She looked at Bothfield, and spoke. 

“ Is he quite, quite dead? ” 

“ Be calm, my child,” said the old man, drawing 
her to him with a caress. “ He is dead indeed, but 
he was a bad man, and no doubt God sent him this 
quick end to save him from a crueller fate. We 
must think now, not of him who is beyond our 
anxiety, but of the peril in which we find ourselves.” 

Her eyes searched Bothfield again. He met them 
and said quickly — 

“ It is more than ever necessary that the letters 
should go.” 

“ And that I should take them,” she answered in 
the same quick undertone. Aloud — “ You killed 
him — you ? Oh I — I pity you ! ” 

“ You need not,” said Bothfield. “ It is a ter- 
rible misfortune, but I have no regret for it. Your 
father will have told you that the man was spying, 
and so it is better to have slain him innocently than 
to have been driven to take his life in cold blood. 
He is better dead than alive; and it is of ourselves 
that we must think first and longest, Fraulein.” 


134 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


The old man struck his hands together. 

“ Christ ! ” he said. “ What hope remains for 
us?’’ 

“Hope!” said Bothfield. “Hope? Why, we’re 
alive, and together, three souls with ready brains; 
hope’s too far-away a word for us to use.” 

The words were brave, and in speaking them he 
turned his face to the window that the others should 
not see the perplexity that was in it. Standing thus, 
a hand touched his arm, and Gisela’s voice said in 
his ear — 

“ There is one thing needful, first. You must 
hide the overcoat.” 

Bothfield wheeled about. 

“ Where is it ? ” said his lips. 

“ Under the sofa,” was the mute reply. Then 
her voice said aloud — “ Come, father. You prom- 
ised you would let me bandage up that poor bruised 
wrist. Come ! ” 

She took him by the hand, and in the same minute 
Bothfield stooped to withdraw the coat. It was 
necessary to dispose of it before they came to con- 
sultation, and to his plans’ revealing. And, to tell 
the truth, his schemes of escape were not too ready 
for recital. 

He murmured something about making sure of 


THREE DOORS AND THE COUNT 


135 


the key, and darted, Radenstein’s back still upon 
him, to his bedroom. 

“ As well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb,” he 
said, opening the cupboard once more. “ What 
hides one here may well hide two.” 

The body of Brother Kurt bulged in the dingy 
shadows; at first glance Bothfield’s heart jumped 
at the eerie thing, at second he plunged it out of 
sight beneath the grey overcoat. He had no in- 
clination to look upon the white face and snarling 
lips, and the coat shrouded them as reverently as 
any pall. 

He closed the door quickly, having neither time 
nor wish for further hesitation, and stepped back 
to survey the wall again. The line of the cupboard 
hardly showed at all. Perhaps to a sharp eye, at 
the hinge 

A sound in the passage sent all thought of the 
door flying from his brain. He strained his ears, 
and listened. Footsteps! 

They came to his door, and stopped. Bothfield 
held his breath. Then he breathed very fast, for 
they passed on to the Radensteins’ apartments, and 
the rattle of an opening door was followed by a 
clack of voices. 

They were too distant to be distinguished, and 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


136 

his forebodings would not let him rest. He opened 
his door cautiously, and found the passage empty. 
The next step took him to the other door, and left 
him with his ear against the panel, and his eyes 
keeping guard upon the stairway end of the long 
alley. For the rest of him, his legs were ready to 
carry him back to retreat or forth to action, as need 
might follow, and with that, and his hand upon the 
clasp-knife, Bothfield was indeed a man of pre- 
caution. 

A strange voice drummed upon the listener's ear, 
and grew to coherence as he laid his cheek to the 
door. 

Anton Goldberg ! Come, let us do away with 
this child's deception at which you play. Anton 
Goldberg is across the frontier. Who is this 
fellow? " 

Said the old man's voice falteringly — 

I don't know. Before God, I thought he was 
your cousin. I don't understand. Count. We're 
bewildered. There's a terrible tangle somewhere." 

''If I thought you were playing false " said 

the threatening voice. 

" And you think yourself a clever man ! " broke 
in Gisela, contemptuous. " Can't you read inno- 
cence there? " 


THREE DOORS AND THE COUNT 


137 


There was silence. Bothfield waited to hear 
Gisela parry the questions he expected to fall to her. 
He pictured to himself the Count — the long- 
expected, now sprung so suddenly upon them — 
pacing the room full of a conspirator’s suspicions. 
He saw the enigma that he must present; the be- 
wilderment; the vain conjecture of his motive that 
would ensue. 

“ And you, Frattlein — are you so equally unknow- 
ing? Come; it is a perilous time, beset by dangers 
— will you risk so much to shield so little ? ” 

“ You are very difficult to understand, Herr 
Count. What do you mean ? ” 

“ You must trust me altogether, or- ” 

“ Oh, Herr Count, you know how much I trust 
you ! ” 

There was a wordless ejaculation, and then the 
Count’s voice, rising a little in choler, said — 

“ Very well ! Herr von Radenstein, I have done 
much for you; look to it that you are not pulling 
down my labours to your own destruction. It is 
not possible that this man can have personated my 
cousin unwittingly; it is in the last degree unlikely 
that he could have done it without your co-opera- 
tion. There is mischief brewing. I have given 
you your opportunity for confession, and you have 


138 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


refused it. It remains, now, for me to confront 
this — friend, who is, no doubt, near at hand, and I 
can assure you that, if his story reveals what I sus- 
pect, I shall not be the man to forget.’’ 

I repeat ” 

Fraulein Gisela, it is no time for a woman’s 
trifling.” Bothfield could hear the tremor of sup- 
pressed exasperation in the voice. I have you in my 
care. Rest assured that care shall continue, even if 
it has to battle against your own charming folly.” 

Dear Count, I repeat ” 

Bothfield heard no more of Radenstein’s protest. 
There was a hand upon the door, and he darted back 
to his own room. 

Fortunately for Bothfield, the Count hesitated on 
the threshold. It gave him time to compass the 
distance between the doors without leaving a scuffle 
sound to show his hurry, and it gave him, too, a 
moment’s breathing space in which to review his 
position. 

He must not be taken; that was certain, because 
of the urgent work he had to do. On the other 
hand, to lock the door would not delay his capture 
above the time it would take a couple of stout men 
to smash the panels. The window? A glance 
through it showed the impossibility of descent. 


THREE DOORS AND THE COUNT 


139 


The matter was threshed out in far less time than 
it takes to write it; in the time, in fact, which the 
Count spent between door and door. As his fingers 
grasped the second handle Bothfield came to deci- 
sion, and before they had released it he was within 
the cupboard, his legs across the innkeeper’s body, 
and his eyes glued by irresistible fascination to the 
tell-tale hinge-crack, through which they surveyed 
the room. 

Bothfield did not give much for his chance of 
avoiding discovery; all he hoped for was that he 
might be able to spring out as the door was opened, 
and tumble the Count undermost with his knife at 
pricking point to keep him quiet. He had no doubt 
that he had come back to recover the letters; his 
fortune and freedom were at stake until he could 
lay hands upon the grey overcoat. Possibly he in- 
tended to use the nimble fingers of some minor con- 
spirator once more, and to trust to their agility to 
snatch his property from the police. But at present, 
it was plain, he must be stuffed to repletion with 
new fears and suspicions, gorged, through Both- 
field’s interference, with that most indigestible fear 
which is for ever food to the guilty. The English- 
man’s heart leapt exultantly through all his trouble. 
If there were truth in the legend of the conscious 


140 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


weakness of evil-doers ! He knew that the 

championship of the helpless was, in itself, a buckler 
of strength. He kept his eye to the crack, and 
straddled across the huddled body, indifferent to 
its terrifying inertness, and to the link between the 
perfection of his brain machinery, with its instru- 
ment the cudgel, and the inscrutable ways of the 
God of accident. His hand still tingled from its late 
exercise, and it warmed the knife over which it 
curved, trembling a little from the force of a pump- 
ing heart. He cursed, at that moment, the jarring 
nervousness which shook him. Would the next 
minute find him work? 

The door opened, and the Count entered, locked 
it, and dropped the key into his pocket. 

Bothfield saw the likeness at the first glimpse, as 
he had seen it from his prison window. It was a 
striking one; but he saw too that proximity and 
familiarity and the shorn moustache would thrust 
it back. Bothfield, the man of indifference hith- 
erto, remembered the looking-glass story of an in- 
expressive fresh-coloured countenance; a face that, 
if it had not been his own, would not have caught 
his memory for half-an-hour. The Count's face 
was his in feature; but in expression, in the fire 
that burned within his eyes, in the lines of the mouth. 


THREE DOORS AND THE COUNT 141 

they were far apart. The stamp of something very 
like genius was on Gottfried von Incke ; his was the 
face of potentialities, and the thread of cunning 
made them evil. Bothfield’s heart thumped loudly 
as he looked, for he saw here a master spirit, and 
the shackles of his own forty colourless years had 
left their mark. The conscious virtue of the pre- 
ceding moment no longer buoyed him, though Gisela 
still beckoned from above. 

Count Gottfried von Incke had come in a hurry. 
His clothes were unbrushed and dishevelled — good 
clothes, well matching the overcoat; his eyes had 
black pits under them, and they were red from want 
of sleep. A perpendicular furrow, one of the lines 
that are cut upon a man’s forehead by hard and reck- 
less living, gave him the appearance of a perpetual 
frown. He frowned now, in reality, biting his 
finger-nails as he surveyed the room, and scowling 
at his secret thoughts. 

The portmanteaux claimed first attention. He 
lifted them to the bed, ripped open the leather with 
a knife that was, as Bothfield recognized, a readier 
weapon than his own, and disembowelled both 
bags with his thin, blunt-nosed fingers. They 
scampered over the inside pockets like spiders; 
they turned up the initials on each garment, and 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


142 

they pouched a memorandum-book which Both- 
field had overlooked, and in which he had scrawled 
a few trains and a tailor’s address. Shirts, razors, 
ties, were examined swiftly, and cast aside. The 
empty writing-case led the Count, after a sharp 
scrutiny, to the stove, and to make a guttural ex- 
clamation at the heap of burnt paper inside its door. 
He passed and repassed so close to the cupboard 
that Bothfield held his breath for fear of discovery, 
and was able to note a circumstance that went a 
way towards reviving him. The Count was grow- 
ing nervous at the increased mystery of the search ; 
he feared, — how many enemies had the man? — 
and though the room was chill and his work light, 
beads of perspiration stood about the furrow. He 
had the bitterest of foes against him in a whilom 
friend and an insulted sovereign, and it was little 
wonder if he had connected him with his present 
danger. And the sickening doubt that must be in 
his mind concerning the overcoat! Bothfield felt 
the cloth under his feet, cloaking the silenced inn- 
keeper. 

The bed and table were the subjects of the 
Count’s next investigation, and he burrowed and 
peered by the light that strained through the grimy 
window. Then he stood out again, and let his eyes 
search the walls of the room. 


THREE DOORS AND THE COUNT 


143 


Bothfield’s heart-beats were .suffocating; the 
thing was a nightmare; he could not move his eye 
from the chink, and it seemed to him as if the 
Count’s eye met it, passed, and returned to the 
challenge. It was his turn now to sweat with anx- 
iety, and the knife became moist and slippery. He 
glared through the chink at the other orb, the cur- 
rent running once again full tilt towards despair. 

The pause that followed seemed ages long. It 
was in reality the fraction of a minute, and then, 
to the stupefaction of our hero, the gaze was with- 
drawn, the Count made a step forward to the right 
side of the wall in which the cupboard lay; and 
disappeared from the field of vision. What fol- 
lowed was left to the air only, and Bothfield heard 
a click, a creak, a sound of a shutting door, and 
after — silence. 

It was Mr. Bothfield’s first thought that the 
Count had espied him, and, with devilish ingenuity, 
was waiting, upright against the wall, to pounce 
upon him as he came from refuge. He was sure 
of the matter for some minutes, until the continued 
silence, and the sounds that had immediately pre- 
ceded it, assured him that it was not the truth. The 
strained acuteness of his ears insisted, in spite of the 
untouched door and the impassable window, that 
there was no one in the room. 


144 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


Minutes passed. The silence was not to be gain- 
said. Bothfield, panting a little from incredulity, 
and yet convinced by the evidence of his sense, 
opened the door of the closet, tip-toed over the 
dead man, and crept softly forth. 

The Count had vanished, and, since days of 
translation were over, it was only reasonable to 
conjecture that there was an exit from the room 
which the astuteness of Francis Bothfield had 
failed to discover. He looked at the wall, remem- 
bering the agonized moment in which he had 
searched in vain for the chink of the closet. 

The panelling bulged everywhere, and there was 
nothing at first sight to tell that one crack differed 
in purpose from another. Bothfield, still uncertain 
as to whether or no the Count lurked within strik- 
ing distance, put his face close to the wall and 
studied it nearly. He remembered that the cup- 
board had been betrayed to him in part by an 
absence of dust in the wall’s interspace, and he 
searched for the same sign over the length and 
breadth of the wooden screen. 

A spider strolled out of a perpendicular crack, 
cast about it in the hope of meeting picnic stuff, 
encountered Bothfield’s eye, and fled again. It 
moved circumspectly into a dust-free cranny, and 


THREE DOORS AND THE COUNT 14S 

it did not need a second glance from the searcher 
to tell that he had found — his gaze followed the 
line and proved the discovery — the signs of a cun- 
ningly hidden door. . . . What had Captain 
Cossebaude said, in the far-away yesterday, about 
a rabbit-warren? 

So the Count knew much, but not all; and while 
he was not infallible there was hope for the rival 
faction. Yet this secret departure had in it some- 
thing menacing and hateful, something to clog the 
footsteps of a man opposed to a foeman of such 
unexpected resource. Bothfield’s brain whirled. 
There were wheels within wheels; there was sus- 
picion piled upon suspicion; and he, surfeited by 
Fortune with manslaughter and deception and 
counterplot, felt as if the blood-guilty hand were 
tied, by its misadventures, to cripple its owner in 
the fight to come. His wits were slow and unready, 
and fear dragged painfully at his heels. 

He picked at the crevice with his finger-nails. 
No door swung back in answer, and he concluded 
that there were further efforts to be made than to 
cry ‘‘ open sesame.’’ But it was not a matter of 
importance; the first thing to be done was to re- 
turn to the Radensteins, to compass the surrender 
of the letters at all hazards — a prospect which filled 


146 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


him with dismay — and to encounter the subsequent 
and lesser troubles of violence, interception and 
robbery that lay between the present situation of 
the documents and their delivery into the hands of 
the law. 

He seized the door-handle, prepared to meet dan- 
ger outside, and yet convinced without mental ar- 
gument that he must see Gisela von Radenstein at 
once. He turned it, hand and heart alike ready for 
probabilities, turned it — and turned it again. And, 
with the fact that the door remained fast shut and 
that yet another angry twist at the knob was in- 
effectual, the recollection of Incke’s entry came like 
a douche upon him. The door was locked in the 
inside, and the key — the key was in the Count’s 
coat-pocket. 

Bothfield rattled and thumped at the door in the 
exasperation of the moment : it took second 
thoughts to show him that the noise would bring 
his adversaries upon him, and to remind him that 
freedom was in jeopardy. He whipped back to a 
respectful distance from temptation, and jogged 
his brain again. 

If the Count’s way led haply to the street ! 

But Bothfield had not the letters, and without them 
the Prince’s police would be unpleasant folk to 


THREE DOORS AND THE COUNT 


M7 


tackle. Gisela had them: it was in her hands to 
expose herself to risk and danger, and though com- 
mon-sense hinted that she would come to the risk 
of less delay as a messenger than he, yet Bothfield 
would have thrown worlds into the scale as he stood 
there, to recover possession of the key. It was cer- 
tain that were he unable to get back to the Raden- 
steins at once, Gisela would set out upon her peril- 
ous mission, and Bothfield saw her in his mind 
already tracked and overcome by the ruffians of 
the Weissen Hirsch, and marked down by her own 
intrepidity for destruction. It was possible that 
even if she reached the police headquarters un- 
molested, she would be clapped into custody as a 
revolutionary without a hearing; how could a 
woman argue with a great, crooked-minded, blunt- 
witted oaf like Cossebaude? It was of vital neces- 
sity that he should escape from the room — and do 
anything, — risk anything, — to return to her. Both- 
field glared about him in desperation, and found his 
eyes upon the secret door. 

It had come to that; and he stepped to it with- 
out more ado. His only chance lay in the unknown 
places behind the panelling; his only hope that he 
might turn from them once more into the quiet 
wings of the house, and so thread his way back to 


148 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


his rightful place. The grey overcoat lay undis- 
covered, and beneath it was stretched the stiffening 
Kurt. Bothfield thought, as he worked at the 
panelling with his knife, of the dead innkeeper ; but 
it was only with a faint reflection of the horror he 
had felt at first. The dead past must bury its dead ; 
he was all for the crowded present. Some time, 
perhaps, when he regained that outside world in 
which he, an oyster among oysters, had once ex- 
isted, he would have manslaughter and bloodshed 
brought before him in their true proportions. At 
present they were small things compared with the 
twist of a rippling curl, and with the need for a steel 
blade in a firm hand to do his will among the cran- 
nies. He prized at the opening, and threw ^ all his 
attention upon the task. 

The knife faltered in the crack at a place some 
three feet above the floor. It had found an obsta- 
cle; and it slipped upon it. Bothfield was on his 
knees at once, to find that he had struck metal, and 
that he could see rust, half-an-inch in, with an at- 
tentive eye. He put one hand against the door to 
press it, and he fidgeted the blade with the other 
till he felt it slip into a socket. Main force would 
have done it, but better luck prevailed. There was 
a jerk, a snap, and, hey-presto! the door was open. 


THREE DOORS AND THE COUNT 


149 


He saw a shallow closet, of the door's width, at 
first sight; a second view told him that there was 
no floor, and that the head of a ladder, the rungs 
of which went downward into darkness, was close 
against his feet. It was a rude staircase, and it 
had evidently been made by removing the cupboard's 
bottom and up-standing the ladder through the hole. 
Bothfield, though he stooped and looked, could not 
see to the foot: he could only tell that where the 
Count had been he could follow. He had imagined 
a winding passage upon the level of the room, and 
this descent into the bowels of the inn was not much 
to his taste. However, nothing remained but to 
go forward or to sit still, and his new temper made 
short work of the choice. He stood on the topmost 
rung, swung the door inwards, and heard the spring 
click as it shut him out of light. He waited until 
his fingers found that they could easily move it 
from the inside, and then he left the dingy bedroom 
to guard its own secret, and fearful still, but still 
amazed at his ability for action, descended the lad- 
der, rung by rung. 


CHAPTER VIII 


IN THE enemy's COUNTRY 

Mr. Bothfield’s feet dropped down the ladder 
as scouts ; his eyes could see nothing, and his hands 
told him only that the walls he passed were rough 
and mouldy, and that they were so close together 
that the space between them was little broader 
either way than a man’s shoulders. The well had 
in it a concentration of the prevailing reek of the 
Weissen Hirsch ; it smelt of dirt, and beer, and bad 
tobacco with an appalling insistency, and a musti- 
ness that he was unable to define blended with the 
other odours. It was clear that the ladder’s home 
had not much connection with the outer air; it 
seemed likely, indeed, as the explorer stepped down 
and down without meeting more than t'ne next 
rung, to end nowhere but in the depths of the earth. 

“ Twenty-two,” counted Bothfield to himself at 
last, and found his feet upon bricks. 

He held the ladder with one hand, ready, if need 
came, to spring back to it, and felt about him with 
the other. He strained his eyes to find a thinning 
of the gloom, and it seemed to him that the darkness 
dso 


IN THE ENEMY’S COUNTRY 1 5 1 

was less intense below than above. Yet his hand 
touched wall and wall, no matter which way it went. 
He lowered it, and searched at the level of his 
knees. Something yielded, and a faint light glim- 
mered at him. He pushed again, and found that 
he was moving a flap which hung unbolted against 
the wall, hinge uppermost. 

Bothfield knelt, and released the ladder. He 
brought his head down to his hands, pushed again 
at the flap, and peered out sideways. 

The shutter opened upon a square, low-ceilinged, 
dusky cellar, into which a little daylight filtered 
from a barred window. The floor of the well was 
four feet above that of the room. Bothfield took 
stock of the situation, crammed his legs under the 
flap, and squeezed himself outside it. 

Rows of dimly-seen shapes dangled from the 
ceiling ; on closer inspection they proved to be hams 
and sausage-strings, and the dark ambushes, behind 
which he began by suspecting the lurking Count, 
were beer-barrels and pickle-tubs. The cupboard 
out of which he had come seemed, on looking back, 
to be an empty oven. The cellar was the inn’s store- 
house, plain to see, and, as such, must have com- 
munication with the kitchens. The outlook of the 
window’s upper inches confirmed the supposition, 


152 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


for they were level with the flags of a back-yard, 
and a misguided streamlet of sink water was trick- 
ling lazily through the bars, and puddling on to 
the floor below. 

All this, so far as the geography of the place 
went, was instructive; but it did not help a man 
whose thoughts were on an upper story. Bothfield 
looked about him impatiently, and saw doors to 
right and left. 

The Count had gone through one of them, and, 
as there were but two, it was a fair chance that he 
would be met at the next turn. The near door had 
a step which meant, seeing that the far one was 
flush with the floor, that it was six inches nearer 
Gisela. Bothfield opened it, found darkness again, 
and sprawled over a gritty heap. The place was a 
coal-hole, and he picked himself up with a remem- 
brance of his entry into the Palace of Justice. 

His fall had brought his outstretched hand to 
another door, and he pushed boldly through it, en- 
couraged by the silence. A passage, an angle — two 
passages. He dived down the first one, twisted 
and drifted into another. There was no light, and 
the air was thick and foul. The place seemed to 
have become a labyrinth; but a slight upward tilt 
of the stones under his feet spurred him to impru- 


IN THE ENEMY’S COUNTRY 153 

dence, and he stumbled blindly on. He touched 
damp and cob webbed walls, searching, as he plunged 
deeply into the mazes, for landmarks by which, if 
he found no outlet, he might know from whence 
he had come. But — and whether it were by reason 
of his feverish anxiety to return to Gisela von 
Radenstein, or of the absence of a bump of locality, 
of his jumping nerves, or all, matters nothing — he 
pulled up at last after rebuffs from three blind 
alleys, with the suspicion that he had fairly lost 
his way. 

The notion, at first thought, was to be doubted, 
for the time when he had left the ladder was scarcely 
five minutes gone, and it did not seem likely that 
so short a period, and so confined a space as the 
cellarage of a mean inn, could baffle wits for long. 
Bothfield closed his eyes, which ached from strain- 
ing through the darkness, and tried to remember 
how he had advanced. He mapped out the route 
in his mind, and set to work to follow it. Alas! 
It brought him only by a few rapid turns face to 
face with the barrier, and with the transformation 
of a suspicion into solid conviction. 

Hand and ears, to the seeing man, are so poor 
a substitute for eyesight, that to be without light 
is to be almost as a helpless babe, and Bothfield 


154 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


leaned against the wall and groaned at his im- 
potence. He had blundered in the spirit of hasty 
adventure into a cul de sac; he had cut off his own 
retreat; and he was left to realize that Gisela was 
probably by this time well on her way to the danger 
that should be his. He had bragged of his ability ! 
He had declared himself a knight-errant, had even 
begun to think something of his poor wits ! What 
manner of man was he when it did not need the 
Count of Incke, or the Reformers, or anything but 
his own imbecility to land him in the slough ! This 
it was to be an amateur in the field of love and 
warfare. 

He roused himself, pricked by the sharp thoughts, 
and began again to move on. Chance might steer 
where memory failed. He had the idea that he had 
been wandering to and fro in a circumscribed space, 
and another effort might help him to escape from 
it. He groped his way from one passage to another, 
and stole onwards. 

His hand, creeping over the surface of the wall 
in advance, slipped suddenly round a corner, and 
felt a gap. He followed it with his eyes, and blinked 
into what seemed to be a deep recess with — a gleam 
of hope shot out — a chink in its depths through 
which there strayed a ray of faded daylight. 


IN THE ENEMY’S COUNTRY 


I5S 


Bothfield edged himself through the opening, 
and so into the cell, if cell it were. Here he stopped 
abruptly, and then tiptoed towards the light with 
infinite precaution. For there was the rumble of 
voices near, and by sticking close to the crack he 
could see and hear, as a moment assured him, things 
that would turn his error into quick and solid profit. 

The peep-hole was made by a badly-fitting brick. 
It was at a convenient height, and Bothfield looked 
and listened. 

A basement room, which had at one time, per- 
haps, had no higher use than the first cellar, was 
now rudely furnished with a trestle-table, benches, 
and a chair or two. Its end window was barred, 
and appeared to look upon a blank wall ; another, 
high up on the opposite side, had darkness behind 
it. The walls were of undressed brick, and on the 
table were pens and ink-bottles, and some scattered 
sheets of paper. The floor was flagged with great, 
uneven stones, and so badly laid were they that 
Bothfield could see one near to him that rocked and 
trembled every time that it was trodden by the 
feet of a restless speaker in his wild beast-pacing 
of the room. 

It was the Count who strode and talked, and his 
audience was a stout, pock-marked, plain young 


iS6 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


man who leaned, feet crossed, against the table. 
He had a heavy face, and a bristling, bullet head; 
the head of a man who was planned to be a fighter 
and a partisan, while leadership and diplomacy 
were left to brighter people. Bothfield knew him, 
when fate unravelled the skein, for the only man 
to whom Incke had ever willingly permitted a 
glimpse of his hatreds and his ambitions. He dis- 
covered him now to be Anton Goldberg. 

‘‘A spy? A spy? A spy? ’’ the Count was say- 
ing, swinging his arms and doubling the sinister 
frown as he paced up and down the room. '' That is 
it, of course; but what is the idea in sending him 
to personate you, a trick bound to be easily discov- 
ered? And why this vast interest in Radenstein 
and his daughter? It baffles me.’’ 

Does it?” said Goldberg, examining his nails, 
and trimming a corner with his teeth. That’s the 
very thing people have said of you. Why this in- 
terest? ” 

The Count took no notice of the interruption. 

He had the heels of me — he’s gone,” he said. 

I scared him away before much harm was done. 
But when I go to the Radensteins’ to hear their 
version, it is all the cock-and-bull story of my 
cousin. Gisela knows more — I’ll swear to that. 


IN THE ENEMY’S COUNTRY 


157 


. . . We will thrash it out presently, she and 1. 

And then this ” He tossed the little notebook 

to the table. “ The entries are in English : jottings 
of the trains from Rome. And I’ll swear the clothes 
and baggage came from London. Now what the 
devil brings the fellow by express from Italy ? ” 

“ Talking of these Radenstein friends of yours,” 
said Goldberg, who was placidly following out his 
own train of thought, “ you don’t say why they are 
here. If for the same reason as most of the in- 
habitants of the Weissen Hirsch, the unknown’s 
interest in them is not unnatural.” 

“So? Well, I tell you something. They are 
not.” 

Bothfield’s ears began to tingle. He held his 
breath in his eagerness not to miss the words. 

“For pleasure, then?” 

Goldberg spoke in a slow monotonous tone: it 
was impossible to tell whether his remarks and 
queries were prompted by a simple-minded curi- 
osity, or were pronounced ironically. 

“ For pleasure, then ? ” he reiterated. 

“ My pleasure,” said the Count. He stopped 
walking up and down the room, and faced his 
cousin, back turned to Bothfield’s peep-hole. “ I 
had my reasons that they should be here, and, as 


158 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


I don’t think persuasion would have done it, I went 
to work another way. Herr von Radenstein — who 
is, between you and me, a feather-headed old fool, 
all unfit to be the father of the charming Gisela — 
is a devotee at the shrine of Liberty. It was not 
difficult to persuade him that his mild devotions, 
which I helped him to supplement with a little prac- 
tical charity — had endangered his freedom. It was 
well conceived: a trifle of plot, a little posing and 
pouf ! away flew a frightened audience to my shelter 
at the Weissen Hirsch.” 

“ And how are you going to get them back ? ” 
drawled Goldberg. 

The Count had begun his pacing again and his 
frown had deepened. 

“ . . . There is only this — suppose they should 
have communicated with friends, and the man 
should have come from them? Another nail in my 
coffin. But no; Kurt and Karl knew at least how 
to take charge of letters. . . . Get them back? 
The father may go when he pleases, so long as he 
leaves his daughter to me.” 

“ Oh, I see,” said Goldberg thoughtfully. “ You 
are in love? You want to be married?” 

Incke did not trouble to answer the question; 
he thrust it to one side with a wave of his hand. 


IN THE ENEMY’S COUNTRY 


159 


“ Let us leave that alone,” he said, impatiently. 
“ The man has run away; he has learned (I believe) 
nothing to injure us; if he brings the police upon 
us, they will do no more than hammer stupidly upon 
the public door, as they have done before; the Ra- 
densteins are still tethered by their imagined dan- 
ger. Presently I will have something to say to 
them. Listen to me now on another matter. 

“ I was taken to the House of Detention in a 
certain grey overcoat that I value very highly. It 
contains, in its lining, some important documents. 
They juggled me out of the place in the twinkling 
of an eye to whisk me across the frontier, and I 
left it in the hands of the police. It must be got 
back; that is why I am here at this moment.” 

“ Why not write for it ? ” 

“ My good cousin, the Prince’s agents are so 
deeply impressed by their conviction of my subtlety, 
that if I expressed a wish to recover the coat, they 
would at once dissect it into fragments, to learn the 
reason why.” 

“ They would be quite right,” Goldberg said with 
gravity. “You have always six motives for one 
action. You are very clever, Gottfried. Now, for 
me, give me a fist-full of sword-hilt, and I don’t 
want to think about anything. But you are differ- 


l6o THE WHIRLIGIG 

ent. I thought, perhaps, you had come back to 
fight somebody/’ 

So I have,” said the Count, and his lips curled 
in a grin. I never forget an enemy ; no, not the 
Prince who cast me off ; nor the Princess who bade 
him ; nor even Gisela in her tantrums. I fight them 
all, but not in your crude way. I shall rest content 
when the Prince’s gimcrack throne collapses; when 
the fair Princess flies across the frontier; when 
Gisela, pretty dear, is glad to creep to her husband’s 
feet and give her kisses meekly. I shall rest then, 
as conqueror, as master, as — who knows? The 
Prince laughs at the Reformers ; perhaps he is right 
— now. They are a gang of ignorant blockheads, 
I admit; but they have taken me to be their leader, 
and they are becoming an organization from an un- 
ruly mob. I have power in my hands already. 
Watch it grow, Anton; watch it grow!” 

His face blazed for a second ; at the next the fire 
died out, and anxiety came back. ^ 

But first I must recover the overcoat,” he said. 

Where are Kurt and Karl ? I called a meeting 
on my arrival, and it must be nearly time for it. 
Go out, Anton, and see if the members of the So- 
ciety are waiting to attend.” 

Goldberg disappeared obediently, and the Count 


IN THE ENEMY’S COUNTRY l6l 

took the chair at the head of the table, thrust his 
chin into his hand, and continued his thoughts in 
silence. 

Bothfield withdrew himself from the chink with 
an exulting heart. He too wanted leisure to think, 
and to consider the profit of his eavesdropping. 
The darkness of the cell felt cool and relieving: it 
cleared the brain, and he was able to weigh the 
situation at his ease. 

The old man had been deceived, as Gisela had 
thought. There had been no danger; it had all 
been a lie; and it was for his own ends that Gott- 
fried von Incke had hustled these two innocent souls 
into the company of thieves and blackguards. He 
pretended to some love of Gisela; this was his 
method of expressing it. Bothfield, whose brain, 
whose heart, whose soul were full of a trembling 
tenderness towards the girl, who would have slept 
upon spikes, cheerfully, that she might lie in swans- 
down; whose pulses throbbed at the recollection of 
her sweet eyes and the scent of her careless hair, 
measured the man’s villany by this one act, and 
found it bottomless. He would pit himself against 
the Count with all his energies; he would not rest 
until his ambitions were fulfilled. No more falter- 
ing, no more backsliding, now ! 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


162 

The Count had no suspicions of the whereabouts 
of the letters. The fears of an adverse reception 
from the bureau were scattered. Gisela, who must 
be by now on her way, with her mission perhaps 
well-nigh accomplished, stood, it appeared, in small 
peril after all. Bothfield found his hands suddenly 
free, and felt them itch to be at Incke’s windpipe. 
Wherefore he took the plain course, and snuggled 
once more against the peep-hole, to learn from the 
forthcoming meeting all that he desired to know. 
He hardly felt excited; that had passed when he 
had heard that the Radensteins had an open door 
before them. He would wait a little, hear a little; 
then he would break out somehow, somewhere, and 
bring Justice to her prey. He was a lame and halt- 
ing performer in this whirl of violent action ; already 
his strength ebbed, his limbs trembled. But he had 
foreign, unexpected resolution, and if Fortune were 
kind, he, too, would help to mete out punishment. 

How was the girl faring? The question, even 
though his fears for her were quelled, could not 
but torment him. He knew she had courage and 
address; he prayed that she might be safe, and he 
wondered, thirstily, when he would see her again. 
He guessed at long and thorny paths between them, 
and swore inwardly as he thought of the perplexi- 


IN THE ENEMY’S COUNTRY 163’ 

ties that must have come to distress her, and the 
fresh fears that must have sprung into her mind, 
when the locked door cut off his return. He had 
not been able to send a word to comfort her ! But, 
please God, his thoughts raced on, he would com- 
fort her by and by. 

The Count, in the quiet room, had put aside his 
meditation meanwhile, and was engaged upon some 
meat and bread, washed down by the gurgling con- 
tents of a flask that had been drawn, with the food, 
from his pocket. He ate with a snapping noise, 
hungrily; his manner showed that meat and he had 
been strangers of late. The fact reminded Both- 
field that he, too, had an ache about the waistcoat, 
and that it was, even as hours go — and he meas- 
ured now by events — a long time since he broke 
fast in the baker’s shop. He eyed each mouthful 
with a wolfish envy, and he was entirely glad when 
the entrance of the Revolutionists made the Count 
swallow his snack with a gulp, and plump the half- 
empty packet beside him on the table. 

The door swung open, and Goldberg entered, 
behind him Brother Karl, and in their wake, after 
a pause filled by exchange of sign and countersign, 
a tail of shambling fellows before whom it was 
evident the Count swam magnificently, amid some 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


164 

side glances and suspicions, as a whale among the 
minnows. They clustered on the threshold, twist- 
ing caps and shuffling feet. Incke saluted them 
and spoke. 

Brother Baumgartner, yours is the doorkeep- 
er’s office.” 

A man in a workman’s blouse responded by lock- 
ing and barring the door behind them. The rest 
advanced to the table and, in answer to the Count’s 
impatient gesture, seated themselves about it. The 
onlooker studied them through the crack with in- 
terest. They were truly, as Cossebaude had said, 
the scum; but none the less formidable for that. 
They were heavy-mouthed, round-backed men, 
their hands seamed with hard work, and their eyes 
dulled with servitude; sullen oxen, that, left alone, 
could only blunder and bellow, but which would 
plough many a broad acre behind the cunning mas- 
ter. One or two of the faces were criminal; all 
were brutal. Incke’s hand was upon the plough; 
whither would he guide it? 

It was a strange sight for English eyes to see, a 
revelation of one of the undercurrents that swirl 
in less enlightened countries than our own. The 
low, dirty room with its barred, blank-eyed window, 
the trestle-table, the Count’s clever hawk-face at 


IN THE ENEMY’S COUNTRY 165 

the end, with Goldberg’s stolid one behind it, and 
beside the board the children of Demos. One fel- 
low had a butcher’s knife within his girdle; an- 
other’s hands were stained with dye, a third was 
obviously a road scavenger. Their trades were dis- 
similar, but by caste and clothing, and by the stamp 
of a common degradation, they were comrades. 
Bothfield, eyeing the men, could not but conclude 
that the cause of freedom in Amaro was in no great 
need for champions, if these rough malcontents 
were all that it would muster for defence. 

Incke looked them up and down. 

Where is Brother Kurt ? ” he said. 

Karl rose to his feet. 

Brother Kurt told me this morning that he had 
work to do, and left the office. Since then I have 
not seen him, and I suppose the business took him 
longer than he thought. Also, your Excellency, 
we did not know when to expect you back. . . . 
May I congratulate your Excellency in the name 
of the Society on your acquittal?” 

‘‘ Thank you,” said Incke. I don’t understand 
this affair of Kurt’s, for, if you remember, he was 
enjoined to watch over the Society’s interests here 
during my absence, and he has apparently deserted 
his post. However that can be seen to later. — We 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


l66 

have met, Brothers, to continue our duties in con- 
nection with this Society, to hasten the foundations 
of a republican system of Government, to forward 
the cause of the masses, and to instil into the minds 
of their present tyrants by any means that seem to 
us expedient, a recognition of their insecure posi- 
tion, and of the rights, the intentions, and the pow- 
ers of the people.” 

He reeled off the declaration with a glibness that 
showed it to be a formula. His tone simulated en- 
thusiasm, but the double frown was there, and his 
hands were restless. Bothfield judged him con- 
sumed with eagerness to get to his own business. 
But among these men, it was plain, he must play 
his part, and the growl of appreciation from the 
assembly that followed his words showed that it, 
at least, was all in earnest. 

“Brother Haering, how did your mission go?” 

A little man at the foot of the table rose to reply. 
He seemed a man of more intelligence than the 
rest ; but he had the hollow cheeks of the enthusiast. 

“ Well enough. Excellency. Our friends at Pest 
are willing to send us the material and the man to 
make the instrument; with it, they tell me, one can 
blow up a cathedral, or send a coachload of princes 
to hell.” 


IN THE ENEMY’S COUNTRY 


167 


Oh, are you talking about the infernal ma- 
chine ? ’’ said Goldberg, with his drawl. ‘‘ You think, 
perhaps, it would have a good moral effect. Not? ’’ 

“ If a moral effect is to split the Prince and his 
toadies into dusty fragments, and to strike bitter 
terror to the hearts of all the rest of their kind, then 
I believe there will be a moral effect in this city 
some day soon,’' said Haering, and Goldberg 
laughed for the first time in Bothfield’s hearing. 
The Reformers looked at him with lowering faces, 
and his smile was wiped out by the old stolid stare. 
Bothfield wondered what he was doing in this odd 
convention, and thought that the Count’s magnet- 
ism and the itching sword-hand had much to do 
with his presence. 

'' I have the papers about it here,” said Haering, 
tugging at an inner pocket. “ I lay them upon the 
table now for the Society’s inspection.” 

Incke had his chance; Bothfield saw that he 
meant to take it in the upward flash of his face and 
the jerk of his hand as he caught the words. He 
spoke, however, very coolly. 

'' You speak of papers. Brother. It reminds me 
that a very serious loss occurred to me during my 
recent imprisonment. Perhaps I have the Society’s 
permission to interpolate the story here? 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


1 68 

The police — you know their honesty and their 
good faith, Brethren — took opportunity when I was 
in their hands to steal from me an overcoat, in the 
lining of which were some valuable private papers. 
Once before I appealed in a somewhat similar case 
to you, and the result was that the packet I required 
then was restored to me.’’ 

I did that,” said a weasel-faced individual 
complacently. I and Brother Nixchet. We 
nabbed it under the very nose of Engelstadt. What 
fools the police are! Have you ever seen me lift 
a ticker? ” 

Goldberg’s face twitched, and Incke covered the 
sudden loquacity by his own speech. 

^'Arrange it among yourselves. Brothers. I will 
entrust a full description of the article to you, and 
you will be of great service to me if you can get it 
back — at once'' 

His anxiety showed in the last words, and Both- 
field saw why he had tried to conceal it. The 
Brothers had militant suspicions ; they were willing 
that Incke should lead them if he devoted himself 
to the Society’s aims; but they jibbed when it was 
suggested that they should act as catspaw. Both- 
f ield had driven behind mules once : he remembered 
their customs. 


IN THE ENEMY’S COUNTRY 169 

“ We came to talk about Keppich’s bomb, didn’t 
we ? ” said the slaughterhouse-man. “ I don’t see 
what his Excellency’s papers have to do with that. 
The affair before, now — Brother Fingelmann boasts 
of it, because he was the tool, but it helped the So- 
ciety not an inch onward, that I could see. It was 
all to do with the trial at which his Excellency was 
triumphantly acquitted, and we worked for him 
then because his Excellency is our chairman, and 
our leader, and can’t be spared. But what have 
we to do with private papers ? ” 

“ It is the same case as before,” said Incke, the 
frown deep. “ The papers jeopardize my liberty. 
Therefore they must be recovered. Would you 
risk me now, when everything is in readiness? 
Aren’t we going to put the Prince out of the way, 
and step in through the gap? Who has laid the 
plans but I? I will not argue the point further. 
Brethren, but — who will step out now and take my 
place ? ” 

He stood back and motioned to his empty chair. 
The Brothers looked at each other, and Haering 
said — 

“ Of course, your Excellency will not desert the 
cause for a fleabite, and neither will we risk you. 
Eh, Brethren? Describe the coat, Herr Graf, and 


170 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


make some note of it, you fellows. I’m not light- 
fingered myself.” 

Fingelmann leaned forward with professional 
curiosity; he had the thief’s quick movements and 
thin fingers, and Bothfield saw that his next neigh- 
bour drew away from him slightly. So there were 
degrees of honesty even in this rag-and-bobtail 
Society ! 

Well, it was grey, with a roll-collar and long 
skirts,” said Incke, when the hum of discussion and 
acquiescence had subsided, and he had taken his 
seat again. Big pockets here. For all I know 
one of the police rascals may have taken it to his 
own use and be airing it now.” 

Grey, with long skirts!” ejaculated Brother 
Karl. Why, it was just such a coat that the man 
your Excellency and the Brethren had so much talk 
over in my room, the man that ran away, wore. 
Big smoked buttons. A splendid coat.” 

Good God ! ” said Incke. The colour went out 
of his cheeks ; he caught^ his breath, and looked at 
the innkeeper. That is my overcoat. What — 
what the devil is the meaning of it all? The man 
ran away again, but he left his baggage behind. 
Suppose, — but no, I searched the room.” 

The cupboard? I told him to hang it there.” 


IN THE ENEMY’S COUNTRY 


171 


“ Cupboard ? Before Heaven, I knew of none. 
The man went bare-headed; I saw his cap in the 
Rad — up-stairs. Surely he’d not have ventured 
here in my coat if he knew what it contained, and 
perhaps, then, he had it for disguise and dropped 

it when he fled. Let me ” 

“ I’ll go,” said Karl, and he sprang nimbly over 
the bench. “ I know the place. Doorkeeper ! ” 

He passed out after the due precautions. Incke 
sank back into his chair. The Brethren stared 
solemnly at each other, and Goldberg looked in- 
quiringly at the Count. 

Bothfield’s eye was withdrawn from the chink. 


CHAPTER IX 


A LIGHT UPON HIDDEN THINGS 

We are told, by those who have been unwilling 
subjects of experiment in drowning, that in the 
agony of suffocation, or after, the mind has the 
power to fill a moment with the lightning-vivid 
remembrances of years. In the same way a minute’s 
suspense, not physical but mental, may be crowded 
with an army of conjectures, sensations, and retro- 
spections, which this same mind in its normal work- 
ing condition would be scarce able to cram into an 
hour. It was so with the hundred seconds while 
Brother Karl was gone and Bothfield’s brain span 
at full pressure. 

The innkeeper’s death, if he had read the sullen 
savage faces round the table aright, meant a short 
shrift to its instrument; the discovery of the rape 
of the letters would bring the sinister Count hot 
foot upon the trail. Yet the side of the dilemma 
that most agitated Bothfield was that the storm and 
suspicion would fall, in all probability, more heavily 
upon those whom he had (how vainly!) tried to 
help, than upon him. Gisela, as he guessed her, 


172 


A LIGHT UPON HIDDEN THINGS 


173 


would return, had probably returned by now, to her 
father’s side, if she won through her errand in safety, 
to be straightway involved with him in the common 
disaster. What could Bothfield do ? How use this 
feeble wit of his, to keep her enemies at bay? He 
had a frantic idea of hurling himself, then and there, 
against the wall, of shouting that he, the guilty, was 
behind it, and of endeavouring to expiate, with his 
own spilled blood, the errors of commission that 
were now breeding retribution. He had this notion 
already ripe for birth, when a clamour at the door 
of the council chamber made him hold back to watch 
once more. 

Brother Karl burst into the room, flinging aside 
Baumgartner’s challenge at the threshold, and swept 
to the table, a white-faced, dishevelled, horror- 
hunted man. His hands shook and his voice choked 
and gurgled, and the Brethren started in their places 
at the spectacle. The Count, too, spr^g from his 
chair: he kept his hands stiff to his side and his 
figure erect, but the guilty fear that had troubled 
him before chased the beads of sweat again to his 
forehead. A confusion of queries and exclamations 
bade Karl deliver himself of his ill-tidings. 

'' Ach yes, I found the overcoat ! ” he gasped, 
while somebody shook him by the shoulder to make 


174 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


the frozen words flow freely. It is there, in the 
cupboard, and Brother Kurt is below it, — Brother 
Kurt, stiff and stark, with a blue lump on his face 
— dead!’^ 

Dead! The word echoed round the room, 
and the other men’s speech surged over it, in a babble 
of fear and amazement. 

There was talk of the Englishman — if English- 
man he be, as the Herr Graf conjectures — ^before,” 
said Haering, above the clamour. He was sent, 
doubtless, by the Government, to strike us down. It 
is a plot ! ” 

^^Then I know who is in it,” said Baumgartner, 
lowering. His Excellency said the man had 
friends here, in the old aristocrat and his daughter. 
They are his Excellency’s friends too, but ” 

Oh, pardon me,” said Incke. His face was 
ghastly with suspicion: he was devoured, it was 
evident, by his anxieties, but he spoke in deliberate 
words. Pardon me. I befriended them, as I 
would give the hand to any good Reformer, but my 
interest in them goes no further.” 

''How?’' said the slaughterman. There was a 
hubbub in the room, and Karl’s lamentations were 
vociferous; it was with difficulty that Bothfield 
could hear the altercation round the chair. The 


A LIGHT UPON HIDDEN THINGS 175 

Brethren near the Count snapped and swayed, while 
Incke confronted them with his double frown. 

“How? You acted on the Society’s behalf for 
them? Will you, in the Society’s behalf, see that 
they get their just deserts ? ” 

“ Don’t talk nonsense, my good sir,” Incke blus- 
tered, and Bothfield noticed that the hubbub sank, 
though but for a second, at the sound. “ The worthy 
people are as innocent as lambs. Can’t you see that 
by their stopping here? They are still in their 
room, or were an hour ago, when Kurt was already 
stiff and stark. You can go and see that for your- 
selves. It’s this damned Englishman. Who saw 
him run away ? ” 

Nobody had, it appeared. 

“ What ! And you waste time in clamour ! ” 
Incke said, throwing scorn at them. “ Who knows 
if the fellow is not in hiding here still? Come, let 
us first see how Kurt suffered, and then let us look 
for his murderer.” 

“ Hoch ! ” shouted somebody. “ We shall know 
how to serve him when we find him! His Excel- 
lency speaks sense; the old man and the girl are in- 
nocent.” 

“ Ay,” Incke said, and he deftly pulled the tiller 
again. “ It is, as I see it, highly likely that the 


176 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


fellow intended to serve them as he served Kurt, 
since he had already entrapped them by his pretence. 
Forward to find him. Come ! 

There was a rush, and the Brethren stormed by 
him, pell-mell, in their haste. He was pushed aside, 
and, as he waited for room, Goldberg snatched at 
his sleeve. 

A cock-and-bull story, Gottfried, eh ? he 
queried. 

God knows,’^ Incke said. Certainly I can’t 
have these boors pawing and hustling the lovely 
Gisela, though they might be a useful means of 
persuasion later on. I have given them something 
to do now. As for this spy-fellow, I declare to you, 
Anton, his comet’s flight and the trail he leaves 
baffle me, — ay, and startle me. But come on, in 
Heaven’s name, and let us see Kurt.” 

You are anxious about him? ” 

''Kurt? He may have been roasted alive for 
all I care. I must get back my overcoat — it is worth 
a world to me — before it is torn to shreds beneath 
their clumsy paws.” 

The hubbub was dying along the passage, and 
forthwith Incke followed it. The last shrill notes 
of Karl’s outburst faded, the trample of feet was 
lost, and then Goldberg, with a resigned expression 


A LIGHT UPON HIDDEN THINGS 


177 


upon his face, shrugged his shoulders and went out 
too, and the door clanged, opening and shutting 
idly, behind him. 

The action of the drama had passed beyond Both- 
f ield’s sight ; but he could picture what would follow. 
He saw the motley rascals, excited by the spectacle 
of their dead comrade; he saw Incke snatching at 
the grey overcoat, and gazing with renewed terrors 
at its emptiness. His mind showed him the baffled 
Count on the one side, and Gisela, with an old man’s 
face behind her, on the other. To be sure, Incke’ s 
ready words just now had defended her from a great 
danger: Bothfield put that one item to his credit, 
to be remembered in the day of reckoning. But 
there was the conversation with Goldberg to be also 
remembered, and it was atrocious that the weather- 
cock of the Reformers’ mood should have been 
blown by Incke’s private desires, and left to show 
a wind of equal if of more distant peril. The 
thought burned him, and he became presently aware 
that he had bruised his fists by battering them on 
the wall, and that he had only the uproar and con- 
fusion of the meeting to thank for saving him from 
discovery. 

He dashed about in the narrow cell, frenzied at 
his confinement, eager to be out and about. He met 


178 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


the gap through which he had come, and he stooped 
through it, and began again to grope his way about 
the pitchy passage. 

The stubborn walls were no less stubborn : he ad- 
vanced and retreated, turned and returned, confused 
with rage, a dozen times in the darkness of the 
mouldy alleys. He had been dishevelled before, un- 
washed and unshaven; but he felt now that there 
was not a tidy stitch upon him; that the dirt had 
caked upon his face; that he was doubly unkempt 
and battered. But he forgot these things in a 
blessed kindness of one of the angles, that pointed 
him suddenly to light. 

A door was swinging on its hinges a few paces 
from him. Its look struck him as familiar, and in 
another instant he saw that he had burrowed clear 
round the council chamber, and that he was looking 
into it from the entry through which the Reformers 
had come and gone. 

A resolve had been growing in Bothf ield’s brain ; 
a resolution that might save all, and that would re- 
quire the Count to witness its accomplishment. It 
was no longer best to try the hazard of escape, — 
granted that the half-truth he contemplated telling 
might have the success that it deserved. Bothfield’s 
mood was full of bewilderment and danger and de- 


A LIGHT UPON HIDDEN THINGS 


179 


sire. And if Incke did not come back, he would go, 
full-armed with his new-born intention, to find him. 

He stepped into the room, noting casually that 
his peep-hole was invisible in the rugged wall, and 
that — pouf! — the Reformers had their own odour. 
At the first glance a packet upon the table caught 
his eye, and with a bound he was at it, cramming 
its contents into his mouth. 

It was the remnant of Incke’s lunch; and Both- 
field had not touched food since the early morning. 
He ate exultantly, filled with joy, as the insistent 
gnawing below his waistcoat grew faint and died, 
relishing the food with a child’s appetite and a man’s 
consciousness. For the minute there was nothing 
in the immediate future that troubled him like the 
thought that he might not have time to finish his 
spoil unto the uttermost crumb. Macaroni au par- 
mesan! What was the feeble wish he had once 
expressed for that, compared to this lusty appetite 
for another man’s broken food? He munched and 
swallowed with avidity. 

There was a step in the passage, and Bothfield 
started, gulping at the last delicious morsel. The 
door was opened, and then Gottfried von Incke 
sprang inside it, while Goldberg, behind him, strad- 
dled before it. Bothfield, with unnatural and yet 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


l8o 

unaffected calmness, licked his lips and faced his 
rival. 

The Count’s eye was bloodshot, like that of a 
hunted jackal. He held in his hand the rifled over- 
coat, with its seams agape, and when he saw Both- 
field before him, he dashed it to the ground. 

It — is — the — man ! ” he said. ‘‘ Then what 
Radenstein and the girl swore to me just now was 
true, and they could not have known his where- 
abouts. But the fellow is a wizard! How else 
does he come here? Nab him, Anton. There is 
the clue by which to find my letters. Gad, I’ll have 
it out of him ! ” 

'' ' Just now! ’ ” Bothfield repeated; and stopped. 
No need to question. Gisela had fulfilled her dan- 
gerous mission without mishap or suspicion, and 
had returned, as he had feared, to her father’s side. 
Now they had both to be rescued from the man who 
had deceived them, and who stood at last, face to 
face with his unknown enemy. 

I believe,” Bothfield said bravely, though his 
anger swelled in his throat, that I have the honour 
of addressing the Herr Graf Gottfried von Incke ? 

Incke began to splutter into speech; there was a 
wicked fear in his face, and his incoherency took 
some seconds to shape itself to language. Goldberg, 


A LIGHT UPON HIDDEN THINGS l8l 

in the background, stood as a second behind his 
principal. 

“ Dog ! Thief ! Murderer ! Where — where ? ” 

His finger crooked towards the coat. Goldberg 
put an ear to the door. 

“ You may spit me with a skewer if I understand 
how the fellow got here,” he said. “ But if you 
wish to interrogate him, you must be quick, Gott- 
fried, or the Reformers will make him into sausage- 
meat. There’s a deuce of a row up-stairs.” 

“ I have to speak with the Count upon a very 
delicate matter,” Bothfield said; and he let his eyes 
rest upon the overcoat. Then he looked at the door 
with a successful effort of outward calmness: his 
apprehensions pictured the howling mob already in 
advance behind it. There was still the half truth 
to tell. 

“ Did you kill Kurt ? That was not a proceeding 
of such immense delicacy, you know,” Goldberg 
interjected. 

Incke thrust open the door and caught the Eng- 
lishman by the arm. 

“ Come,” he said, “ they’ll never look for you 
yonder.” 

They took a half-dozen paces from the council 
chamber, and then, with a sharp turn, landed in the 


i 82 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


gloom of a smaller cellar. The high-barred window, 
to which a man on tiptoe might haply leap, looked 
back, Bothfield assumed, into the room they had 
left, and this was an antechamber or — a cell. It 
was a box-like, foul place, and it had an ominously 
well-furnished door, which Goldberg barred behind 
them. Incke turned eagerly upon Bothfield while 
the lock still creaked. 

Now for your explanation,” he said. It must 
serve you well, for there’s a noose tightening about 
your neck, Herr Goldberg the Second.” 

'' Oh, as to that,” said Bothfield, easily, '' it was 
the only means by which I could gain admittance. 
And you see, Herr Graf, I had to find you.” 

I believe,” said Goldberg, with a big stare at 
the other faces, that he is going to say he is your 
long-lost brother. What a pair of peas ! ” 

'' He will try no such imposture if he is wise,” 
said Incke, panting with impatience. Go on, sir. 
You wanted to see me? ” 

The story was ripe for the telling, and Bothfield 
began. He spoke at first almost mechanically, for 
he was busy at the same moment with the thought 
of Gisela, and with the gripping conviction of the 
subtlety in the face of a man who had entrapped 
her. Bothfield was, he saw, a prisoner for the third 


A LIGHT UPON HIDDEN THINGS 


183 


time; he had walked willingly for once into captiv- 
ity ; he asked no better fate ; but his spirit was free, 
and it was dreaming over the girl that had quickened 
it. He awoke, and found that he had recited, so 
far truthfully, his initial adventures in the Amalian 
capital. 

“ You will see, Herr Graf, that I was an un- 
willing instrument, though I proved, unfortunately, 
an effective one. But it was after I escaped from 
the rascals in the depths of the forest that I found 
your overcoat had more pockets than met the eye, 
and that the contents ” 

“ Ach yes, the contents ! ” Incke said. 

“ — were things too dangerous for me to handle. 
I have no concern in your Amalian politics, and 
scant knowledge of them, but it was plain to me that 
I held papers of value to — either side. How soon, 
then, before the Prince’s men found that out, and 
made it their work to retake me, or before Merke- 
witz guessed it; or before, assuming that I was 
again captured without this knowledge, that my 
seizure brought it to them? ” 

He gasped a little. It is not easy for an English- 
man, even though he be the child of cosmopolitan- 
ism, to tell a lie with ease, much less with pleasure. 
It needed the thought of the indignities which the 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


184 

man confronting him had put upon Gisela, to spur 
him, and even then the thing was a reproach. But 
for her ! 

He awoke again, and found he was still speaking. 
With the sound of his own voice came inspiration; 
he could have laughed with joy as he saw the course 
of his rhetoric swim down the rapid, and plunge 
into the calmer deeps. 

“ . . . So I have disposed of your letters, putting 
them in safety, and here I am, Herr Graf, to inform 
you of that fact, and to divulge their whereabouts 
to you when you please. I swear to you I know 
where the letters are, and that I will tell you in re- 
turn for — this is an after-thought — a favour from 
you for what I give.” 

“ He is lying,” Goldberg said. “ He wants your 
protection, Gottfried. What man would be such a 
fool?” 

“ Where have you hidden them ? And if this is 
true, you want — what?” Incke said, his hard eyes 
glaring into Bothfield’s face. 

“ 1 found entrance here, through the mistake 
of the innkeeper, and of Herr von Radenstein, who 
took me for your cousin, and helped me, so, to play 
a part I had not studied. Herr von Radenstein’s 
confidence told me a good deal ; the two scoundrels 


A LIGHT UPON HIDDEN THINGS 185 

your accomplices told me more. I have two re- 
quests to make before I reveal the place in which I 
have bestowed your letters. I ask your permission, 
first, to ” — he raised his hand — “ strike you in the 
face — so ! — for a betrayer of innocence, and a double 
traitor ! ” 

The blow swung on to the face with stinging vio- 
lence. Incke staggered backward, and a spot of 
blood streaked his upper lip. 

“No; it must have been the truth,” said Gold- 
berg. “ Mad, you know. All Englishmen are mad. 
I forgot. Oh, yes, mad ! ” 

“ That was granted, eh? ” Bothfield hissed, his 
fingers quivering as he wiped the Count’s blood off 
his knuckles. His voice rumbled in the silence of 
the cell; between his words could be heard the 
muffled tumult of the Reformers, and the nearer, 
choking breaths of Incke. “ There is more. 

“ I found your instrument spying upon the lady 
you have seduced into this den of thieves. I killed 
him — unintentionally ; but I am glad I did it, in her 
defence. It is hideous that she — any woman — 
should be forced to remain an instant in these vile 
surroundings. You must give me proof that you 
have set free Herr von Radenstein and his daughter 
— entirely free, with no cloud of needless fear upon 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


1 86 

them — ^before I tell you where the letters are. After 
that, do as you please with me, only remembering 
that I have put my finger-marks upon your face.” 

“ I shall not forget it,” Incke said. “ You killed 
Kurt. Do you hear those men looking for you 
above? You will have to learn that a scratch upon 
me will count for more than the murder of a poor 
innkeeper.” 

He brought his face to the level of the English- 
man’s, a dreadful face, pale with anger and cruelty. 

“ He has got to tell you where the letters are,” 
said Goldberg. “ I say, you are really mad, aren’t 
you, Englishman? Because, if not, you are the 
biggest fool in Christendom.” 

But a new suspicion was stirring in Incke. He 
burst out — 

“ Gisela von Radenstein has worked with you to 
this!” 

“ I never saw the lady till yesterday. Come, do 
you take my condition ? ” 

“ Your condition ! Your condition ! ” Incke raved 
at him. “ Goldberg is right, you are mad, or a fool. 
Why, you’re in my power! I can use persuasions 
that will make you do more than merely talk. And 
you speak to me of conditions ! ” 

“ That way won’t do it,” said Bothfield. He 


A LIGHT UPON HIDDEN THINGS 


187 


leaned his back against the wall and looked steadily 
into the eyes before him. “ You see, I don’t ask 
you for my freedom, because I put no faith in your 
promises. I only ask for what I can have proof of, 
before I tell you where the letters are. You must 
let those people go.” 

“ Wait till you see if my way is not a short cut. 
Tell me now — now — where are my papers, or I hand 
you over to the Reformers ! And expect the same 
result if your story prove untrue. My followers are 
a slow moving people, with still a flavour about 
them of the Middle Ages.” 

But here Goldberg interposed. He had watched 
the conversation with his usual stolidity, interjecting 
occasionally a level-toned remark, and he had studied 
Bothfield with heavy attention during the colloquy. 

“ You must not do that, Gottfried.” 

“ It is imperative that I should know where my 
papers are without delay. This dog stands in my 
path. I will show him how I make men move when 
I need their action.” 

“ Y ou can do what you like,” Bothfield said. 
“ But it won’t help you to hear from me where I 
have placed the letters. On the other hand, I have 
resolved ; and you may seal my lips for ever, or get 
only a lie from them. One thing I tell you both — 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


l88 

the letters are safe from destruction, and they are 
where an hour or so — such time as I require — will 
make no difference to the Count in regaining them. 
He can move slowly; they are snug and safe. . . . 
And then, there are my finger-marks. Is that the 
way an Incke wipes out insults ? 

Incke sprang at him with upraised fist, and Gold- 
berg struck between them. 

Keep quiet, for God's sake, you English devil ! " 
he cried. Gottfried, you will not do what you say. 
You can’t afford to lose those papers. Were you 
not ready to cut your throat when you found they 
had been taken, an hour ago? For my part, I say 
the man is right. Let the Radensteins go ; they had 
no business in this affair, and if you are not careful, 
they will be your ruin. Let them go, I say, and then 
come back, get the words you want, and fight this 
fellow, man to man. I’ll take a round or two with 
*him first, if you like, in case he wants a little 
practice.” 

Who will prove to me that they are free ? ” said 
Bothfield, while Incke lowered. 

Would you take me as a witness, I wonder? ” 
Goldberg said. My name’s Goldberg. It’s not 
noble, though my mother was ; but it’s a good name. 
I’ll swear it to you on my sword.” 


A LIGHT UPON HIDDEN THINGS 189 

The matter hinged now upon the bare word of the 
heavy young man. Bothfield wanted to ask for a 
letter of assurance to be brought to him from Gisela; 
but he did not dare to venture that, seeing the 
Count's suspicions, and thinking of her fears that 
would then arise for him. Incke, still unsteady with 
anger, but evidently impressed by Bothfield's assur- 
ance of the letters' safe-keeping, was swaying before 
him, but Goldberg was there as a tower of strength, 
and Bothfield saw that his broad countenance was 
lightened, more than he had seen it yet, with appre- 
ciation. There had leapt to him out of the chaos 
of his adventures another friend. Yet Goldberg 
would be staunch to his cousin, and there was but 
present hope, which meant only room for Gisela, in 
his attitude. 

Well, I agree, reserving the right to inform my 
friends as I please of my reasons for asking them to 
leave," Incke said presently. He was dabbing his 
lips with a handkerchief, and between the careful 
observations which he bestowed on the stains upon 
the cambric, he gave to Bothfield looks that glared 
and menaced. ‘‘ I bow to your ruling, Anton. Has 
it occurred to you that in so doing I am sheltering 
a murderer? " 

Not for long, cousin," Goldberg urged. After 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


190 

all, you wouldn’t like to be stuck by those dirty Re- 
formers yourself. How much better to die cleanly 
on a gentleman’s sword-point ! ” 

“ You are a swashbuckling anachronism,” Incke 
said impatiently. Yet he seemed to have respect for 
the young man’s opinion and argument, and he con- 
tinued to inspect the spots upon the handkerchief 
in silence for a minute. 

“ You shall know that your self-appointed charge 
leaves the inn,” he said presently. “ After- 
wards ” 

“ You fight,” Goldberg said persuasively. 

“ Damn you, Anton, keep away ! Afterwards, 
and after I am told where the papers are — that is 
my affair. Believe me, I will erase these finger- 
marks.” 

“ As you please,” Bothfield said. “ On second 
thoughts, I agree only to tell the letters’ place to Herr 
Goldberg, though you may be present if you wish.” 

Goldberg scratched his head. He saw reason in 
the amendment, for the Count’s assurance was made 
with an emphasis that was no less than devilish. 

Mr. Bothfield, leaning with much apparent ease 
against the wall of the cell, read his probable future 
in the one man’s evil frown and the other’s per- 
plexity, and wilfully turned his thoughts lest at the 


A LIGHT UPON HIDDEN THINGS 191 

last his little soul should raise an outcry. His heart 
beat very fast; he was afraid. But it was, though 
he knew it not, an heroic fear now; the despair of 
the soldier who sees death charging upon him, and 
who forthwith squares himself to meet the steel, 
with trust in God that He will help the honour of his 
country. So our hero, his terrors plunging in his 
heart, faced them quietly, and directed his thoughts 
to where the Radensteins’ isolation above made im- 
mediate action necessary. 

You will go now and put them into safety?’^ 
he said. “ God ! I have been quibbling here, and 
meanwhile perhaps those brutes 

No, no. He reassured them — for the present. 
It’s you they’re looking for,” Goldberg said. 

Incke knitted his brows for a while, and followed 
his thoughts with speech. 

Anton, do you think your uncle the banker 
would take in two friends of yours, if you went to 
explain matters? You could drive with them to the 
Buerger-Wiese.” 

That will do finely,” Goldberg said. Uncle 
Jacob ! The simplest old money-grubber in Amalia. 
He’ll be enchanted to give room to a pair of Vons. 
And, for my part, I am heartily glad it has come 
that they are to get out of this. I don’t think it is 


192 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


a place for ladies. But you have such a deep head, 
Gottfried — it’s stuffed with plans. Fortunately, 
they lead to a lot of fighting, and who wants more 
than that?” 

There was a new light in the Count’s face as he 
unbarred the door, that brought a fresh misgiving 
to Bothfield. What was this ready acquiescence? 
The desire only to gain the letters peaceably, or 
more? It would be easy to turn the circumstance 
to advantage, with Gisela in ignorance of the pinch- 
ing shoe. Easy to pose once more as the saviour; 
easy But at least she would be safe, and deliv- 

ered out of this den of thieves. 

It will not be long before we return to you,” 
Incke said. And if you do not yield all that you 
know% there will be no more mercy. I will rip 
your knowledge out of you.” 

'' Auf Wiedersehn! '' Goldberg said. He gave, 
while his cousin’s back was turned, a quick nod of 
approval and commiseration, and, with another 
gesture, continued to impart to the prisoner the im- 
pression that there would be hope forthcoming. 
Another second, and the door was locked and bolted, 
and Bothfield was alone. 

He turned his face to the cold wall of the cell, 
and pressed his hot forehead against it. 


A LIGHT UPON HIDDEN THINGS 


193 


“ God send you safety, dear ! ” he muttered. 
“ God deliver you from your perils. I can do no 
more.” 

He stared across the narrow space, and his old 
fears and haunting terrors crept out of the dark 
corners and swam about him. He had no defence 
to make; it remained now to tell Incke the truth, 
and to bear his sure revenge. Unless, as his last 
provision showed that he hoped, Goldberg stepped 
in to forbid the cruelties that Incke’s eye foretold. 
To be sure it was a poor hope, for he was all agog 
for fighting, and the duel promised small chance to 
Bothfield. 

Or the police arrived . . , 

Ah, yes, if the police arrived ! 

But again, what was that about a rabbit-warren? 

Any way, he was tired — tired — tired. He let his 
limbs relax, and huddled on to the floor. The reac- 
tion that swept upon him had a haze of insensibility 
— or was it merely sleep? — in its train. Bothfield 
dropped his head upon his arms, and a kind oblivion 
engulfed him. 


CHAPTER X 


THE WORLD OUTSIDE 

A CELLAR-FLAP of insignificant exterior opened 
in a blind alley, a lithe young figure slipped across 
the moss-grown flags, and Gisela von Radenstein 
was in the outer world. The slanting window-eyes 
of the inn leered up the street, and with one fright- 
ened glance at its besmirched countenance, she 
sprang across the gutters and her heels clacked 
nimbly on the cobblestones. She passed, like a 
sounding shadow, into a broader thoroughfare, 
mixed with the passers-by, and breathed the air of 
freedom. 

Her ears were still ringing with the last accents 
of the Count. He had threatened her again,- — and 
she had escaped, two minutes after he had left her, 
as a bird from the snare of the fowler. There was 
the urgent pressing need that she should fulfil her 
mission, and bring the dogs of justice to the per- 
secutor’s hiding-place. For otherwise, how could 
her father be saved, and this miraculously risen 
stranger, who were left exposed to perils of dis- 


194 


THE WORLD OUTSIDE 


19s 

covery of which she dared not think ? The English- 
man was between the devil and the deep sea, and for 
two sakes Gisela’s haste became breathless ; the easy 
Amalians stared in amazement as she fled through 
the press, jostling ribs and elbows as she tossed back 
soft apologies. 

The Englishman! He had stepped from the 
clouds and walked god-like (if Bothfield could have 
known it!) into her inner heart. An hour ago the 
world had been blackly shadowed by Incke, with 
gigantic wings of misery and menace. Since then 
the champion had appeared, troubles had fled back- 
ward, and already the sunlight was shining again. 
Though, certainly, it was still unsettled weather. 
She looked over her shoulder, fearful of a hand-clap 
from one of Incke’s horde, the avengers of the grisly 
dead man that peeped in and out among her 
thoughts. But the faces around and behind her were 
those of the mild street people of the city, and the 
heads that wagged shook only over her impetuosity, 
or over the gossip that was fermenting upon the 
trial and its aftermath. 

The Palace of Justice threw a protecting shade 
over her, and Gisela sped on under the lime-trees, 
her shoes pattering now on the gravel of a boule- 
vard. Would she be clapped into prison, she won- 


196 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


dered, as she presented herself at the police-station, 
if haply her name were upon the black list of the 
Government? In that case she had, she admitted 
doubtfully, to parry the onslaught of her captors. 
A word — a wave of paper — could it be done ? But 
if Incke had lied — oh, she prayed that he had lied. 
And somehow, since sight of Bothfield’s indigna- 
tion at the scurrilous letter, it seemed not merely 
possible, but probable that it was so. Then to fly 
back, to stand beside the feeble old man, whom she 
had had, perforce, to leave in a fog of piteous be- 
wilderment at the Count^s accusations, and at her 
sudden warning and departure, and to soothe him 
again into peace. Her anxieties were divided, and 
they were at least equally keen for this Mr. Both- 
field upon whom Incke had already turned his 
enmity. What had happened to prevent his return ? 
Where was he? How would he withstand the 
danger that had closed in upon him? Gisela’s feet 
raced faster and faster; they seemed scarcely to 
touch the ground as she hurried through the streets, 
a vision as fleet and graceful as the deer of her lost 
home. 

The headquarters of the Amaro police stared 
stolidly at the spectacle of a hatless, breathless young 
woman upon its threshold. It was a yellow painted 


THE WORLD OUTSIDE 


197 


building, with a dull, three-sided courtyard that 
was shut from the pavements by iron-gates and a 
striped sentry-box. The afternoon was chill and 
foggy, passers-by paced in furs, and the sentry 
opened his eyes, as well he might, at the swift 
amazement that flashed before them. Gisela, with 
her mind still in a seething turmoil, thoughts hur- 
rying now to the strange vanishment of Bothfield, 
now to the perils of the hour, and now to the fear- 
ful touch of the stark innkeeper, darted past him, 
and found herself within the portico of the bureau. 
She halted, panting, and a fat-faced young man, 
in police-lieutenant’s uniform, beamed upon her 
from a doorway. 

“ If you please, mein Herr ” Gisela began. 

“ Good day, my dear,” said the plump young 
man, with smiling affability. 

Gisela looked at him. Even her dauntless ig- 
norance was not sufficiently deep to declare this 
the manner of official reception. She stopped, her 
lips parted, and her eyes fixed gravely upon the 
lieutenant. He looked at the outer husk of pretty 
bewilderment, at the bare head, and the mean cloth- 
ing, and gave his moustache an extra twirl. 

“ Come inside, dear child, come inside,” he said. 
“ You’ll catch your death of cold, out there. Come 


198 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


into my office, now. Business? Oh yes, yes. I’m 
here for business. You shall tell me all about it.” 

He opened the door wide, and held it with an 
outstretched arm, while he smirked, his face in 
creases. Gisela hung back for an instant, and then 
reflecting that it was, perhaps, only goodness of 
heart that made him so unpleasantly amiable, she 
passed him with a dignified little bow, shrinking 
through to escape his breath upon her cheek, and 
was ushered into a little closet, in which a white 
china stove and an official table seemed determined 
to crowd mere humans out. She glanced round 
for standing room at a distance from her host, and 
he, with complacent misinterpretation, followed her 
look. 

'' Cosy little spot, you think? ” he said. Bare? 
Oh bare, of course ; we public men permit ourselves 
no vain adornments. Our mistress is duty. But ” 
— he sighed with huge meaning — one cannot 
help, when one is young, letting soft thoughts wan- 
der to — ah — sweeter flames.” 

Gisela’s haste and anxiety seemed to have 
plumped her into a featherbed, where, when she 
tried to escape, she came near to suffocation. 

I — I am in trouble, sir. I have something of 
great importance ” 


THE WORLD OUTSIDE 


199 


“ In trouble. Oh, oh ! Liebchen, you should let 
nothing trouble you. There’ll be wrinkles; and 
wrinkles are the deuce in a woman. Look, here’s 
a seat. Compose yourself. Do you like music? 
Between ourselves I have a passion for the zither, 
and I have always found it soothing in my hours of 
sadness. Do you know the little Volkslied — zum, 
sip, sum, sum? I play that marvellously. My 
mother ” 

“ Can I see the Head of Police? ” Gisela inter- 
polated, desperately. 

“ My mother — How ? The Head of Police ? 
Which Head? Yesterday it was Holseg. To-day 
it’s Wertheimer. There was a row, you know, a 
scandal; Holseg vanished, and Cossebaude too. I 
got a step through that. I went home in the even- 
ing, so glad that my head danced. ‘ Beloved 
mother,’ I said, ‘ I’m no longer officer-on-proba- 
tion. Behold the Herr Lieutenant!’ — ‘No more 
than you deserve, Seffel,’ says she. — (I’m Joseph, 
you know, Seffel always to her.) — ^Joseph 
Braun, and at, beloved Fraulein, your charming 
service.” 

“ Ah I I have something of great importance to 
deliver to the Head of Police. It will be of 
vital interest to him, I think, and I trust — I be- 


200 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


lieve — it will save some dear ones of mine from 
danger. You will help me to see the Head of the 
Police ? ’’ 

The lieutenant glanced at the clock. 

Herr Wertheimer will be here in an hour. 
That’s nice, not? ‘ Dear ones,’ you said. We shall 
be in sympathy; let’s talk a little about our nearest 
and our best. A young man’s thoughts are mostly 
of love, if he has a tender heart. My heart, now, 
is as tender as — a — a — sweetbread. My mother 


'' An hour ! ” Gisela clasped her hands in despair. 

And every moment there may be something dread- 
ful happening ! ” 

Oh, ta, ta ! ” said the lieutenant, in tones of 
rebuke. There can’t be as much hurry as that : 
we of the Police always find that the people who 
are in greatest haste have mare’s-nests to show us. 
Why, you are exciting yourself! Dear little girl, 
I beseech you to be calm and patient. Just think 
how jolly we can be here, you and I, while we are 
waiting for Wertheimer. Let’s hear your story to 
begin with. Your Geliebter is in danger, eh? There, 
I guessed it at start. I’m a great fellow at guess- 
ing. My mother used to say, ^ Put Seffel’s brains 
to crack a riddle ’ ’’ 


THE WORLD OUTSIDE 


201 


“Oh, I cannot bear it! You must let me go. 
Herr Lieutenant, please let me go ! ” 

“ Why, I’m not holding you, little flower. Is 
that an invitation — ^your way of putting it? A 
little squeeze, eh ? Such a charming waist ! ” 

He made as if he would put his arm about her, 
and his fat white face approached her, smiling to 
its moustache-tips. His amiable obtuseness was 
amazing, and Gisela beat against it, battling with 
the crooked arm and the curved fingers as with the 
mental attitude of this exasperating person. 

“ Take your arm away ! You go too far, sir. 
Your superiors shall know of this. Let me pass ! ” 
She faced him with pale lips, and with so much 
palpable aversion that a shaft went home in the 
featherbed. “ Inform me now, if you know it, 
where the Head of Police is, that I may go to him.” 

“ He is riding with the Prince — there ! You are 
a stick. I thought you looked like fun when you 
came in. That’s what women are, just a mass of 
falsehood. They deceive the men — ^brave men, 
make fools of them. Well, God be thanked, I’m 
not to be caught. Oh yes, you may look ever so, 
little cat ! My mistress is duty. A policeman owns 
no other.” 

The loose mouth had dropped at the corners; it 


202 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


was evident the lieutenant’s self-pride was wounded. 
He stared with sulky impudence now, the impress- 
ive manner cast aside, and his broad back leaning 
square against the door. 

'' Stand aside ! ” 

‘^How? And let you go to Wertheimer, with 
a pack of newly-minted fibs? Much good it will 
do me that I saw through your wiles at once, if you 
can go straight to the private ear of the chief, and 
pour tarradiddles into it. You must stay here, my 
girl, and see him in my presence, my eye on you, 
and if you so much as wink an eyelid to him, I shall 
know what to say.” 

Stand aside!” 

Pooh, no.” 

Yes. There.” 

Eh, spitfire! You would? Move me, do you 
think ? I snatch your wrist — so, and there you are 
in custody ! ” 

The little scuffle had come from Gisela’s effort 
to pull the solid body from the door. The lieu- 
tenant pushed rudely against her, and caught the 
slender wrist to his side. So absorbed was he in 
overcoming her indignant resistance that he did 
not see, as she could over his shoulder, the door open 
and a head intrude. 


THE WORLD OUTSIDE 


203 


The next moment the door swung back, and a 
man in uniform cried angrily upon the scene — 

'' Potztausend! Lieutenant Braun! What the — 
what the devil do you mean by this monstrous con- 
duct? ’’ 

The most facile quick-change artist could not 
have skipped more quickly from one character to 
another, than did Herr Braun at the trumpet-tone 
of authority. A moment before he had been the 
confident bully. In the wink of an eye he was up- 
right and rigid, facing his chief with an air of 
grieved and conscious innocence. Gisela even, who 
had seen his endearing mood snuffed out by the 
ugly one at her rebuke, gazed at him in fear to trust 
her eyes. 

'' Very sharp, but it won’t do, Braun. The sen- 
try, who can see something of what is behind this 
window, gave me a clue your present attitude can’t 
tangle. So you spend your official time in worry- 
ing recalcitrant maidens, by force if necessary, hey? 
You are under arrest. Expect a sterner punishment 
to-morrow. . . . Now, Fraulein, what is your 
business here ? ” 

Gisela, who was still quivering from the indig- 
nity the discredited Braun had put upon her, looked 
up in hope, and saw a pair of shrewd brow-bushed 


204 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


eyes fixing her. She read in them the suspicion of 
the ageing man, who has walked the seamy side of 
life, and been made sceptic by it. Her fear lest she 
should be altogether discredited leapt quick within 
her, and she schooled herself to speak with the re- 
straint that would appeal. This man, whose fingers 
had touched the hidden sores of a city’s evil, who 
had met vice and untruth stalking in the noonday, 
was proof against the patter of a word-shower, and 
she guessed it with the woman’s instinct. 

I bring advice of importance regarding Count 
Gottfried von Incke. He holds those dear to me, 
and I have escaped from him with difficulty to buy 
help, by the knowledge I hold, from the Head of 
Police. This gentleman would not listen, or let 
me go, and I was desperate, because every minute, 
sir, may mean danger to those for whom I come.” 

The eyebrows knitted and were again unarched. 
The voice said — 

'' I believe you, Fraulein. ... It stands at that, 
Herr Braun, and you may possibly have the wits 
to see it is not a gay prospect for you. I am the 
Head of Police, Fraulein. Have the kindness to 
step into my private office. I shall be very glad 
to receive information of Count Gottfried von 
Incke; but we don’t require ladies to buy our serv- 


THE WORLD OUTSIDE 


205 


ice here. At least I hope not: a man does not al- 
ways know his subordinates at the outset, though 
he discovers them in time. Schalk, take Lieutenant 
Braun’s sword, and see him into safe keeping.” 

Gisela stepped forth out of reach of featherbeds, 
and of more unpleasant things. As she left the 
room her eyes saw, without looking, the stupefied 
countenance of her late tormentor, dumbfounded 
and discredited, with his tattered self-love in shreds 
about him. She felt compunction instantly; but 
laid the matter aside until the present tyranny should 
be overpast. Her heart beat like a clenched fist 
against her bosom, and when she found herself 
face to face, and alone at last with the god from 
the machine in an inner room, she strove vainly to 
speak with lips that trembled. 

Wertheimer handed her a glass of water, and 
bowed her to a seat with a manner which showed 
he could guess the princess beneath the beggar’s 
rags. 

“ You have had cause for agitation,” he said 
kindly. “ Try now to realize that the abominable 
reception you had here was a deplorable accident, 
and that I owe you all the reparation in my power 
for its occurrence.” 

“ It is not that,” Gisela stammered. “ I forget 


2o6 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


that when I remember the things that brought me 
here.” 

“Ah! And they were concerned with the Count 
Gottfried von Incke ? ” 

Somebody hammered at the door. There was a 
voice outside that was speaking peremptorily. 

“Of course he’s here ! Herr Wertheimer, are 
you within ? ” 

“The Prince! One moment, Fraulein.” Wert- 
heimer sprang to his feet and opened the door. 
“ Your Highness’ servant — at your Highness’ 
service ! ” 

Prince Ferdinand of Amalia strode into the room 
with a hand upon his sword-hilt, and his military 
cloak tossed back from his shoulders in a fashion 
that betokened the impetuous nature of its wearer. 
Gisela looked on him and saw the Prince that she 
remembered, but with the gaiety gone and the wil- 
fulness deepened into something that was dignity. 
There was the same brown hair, the same bright 
eye and clear complexion, and there was also the 
same clear and imperious voice that she had known 
at Radenstein. But that was long, long ago, in 
a past Arcadian age of rose-leaves and simplicity; 
in this present time the Prince was a man of action, 
with anxiety and anger on his brow. 


THE WORLD OUTSIDE 


207 


“Wertheimer! Here’s word from the frontier 
that Incke has crossed. Set your hounds on him, 
and run the fox to earth. ... Ah, pardon ; you 
were engaged ? ” He turned to Gisela with the 
beginnings of apology, and stopped in astonishment 
as he saw who it was that sank and rose again in 
deep courtesy. “ Fraulein Gisela von Radenstein! 
. . . This pleasure is sincere, and unexpected. 
You look troubled. Surely there is nothing wrong 
at Radenstein, that peaceful haunt of freedom ? My 
visit there remains a bright spot in my memory. 
How came you so far from your kingdom, and 
with that grave face, Fraulein Gisela?” 

Then Incke had lied! The recollection of the 
nightmare sufferings that they had undergone 
through him swept over Gisela, and the flood-gates 
were unloosed. She threw herself upon her knees 
and caught the Prince’s hand, and pressed her lips 
to it in gratitude. Wertheimer watched from under 
his eyebrows, a spectator who saw and valued every 
gesture. 

“ Ah ! your Highness, then it is not true ! Ah, 
your Highness, those gracious words are more than 
I can bear! We have been in great misfortune and 
misery — we have been foolish and imprudent, but 
your Highness knows that my father is loyal to 


208 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


the death. He had dreamed of liberty; It is our 
liberty to serve your Highness, and all else is bond- 
age. Will you believe that? ” 

“ Dear, dear ! What is all this ? I beg you to 
rise, Fraulein Gisela,” the Prince said; and he bent, 
and lifted her gently to a chair. “ You are quite 
upset; it distresses me to see you. Herr Wert- 
heimer, do you know what is agitating this lady? 
It must be set right at once; that’s my command. 
But this talk of loyalty! Who thinks a Raden- 
stein could be disloyal? The dear little goddess of 
Liberty in the garden — is she the rival I am to be 
jealous of? She’s a charming lady; I would have 
paid my devotions to her myself if I had known 
how to make verses. . . . Child, you mustn’t cry 
like that! Come, tell us all about it. Compose 
yourself for a second while I speak with Herr 
Wertheimer.” 

He patted Gisela on the shoulders. The harum- 
scarum young man was a thing of yesterday, it 
seemed, and the Prince was wholly friendly and 
paternal. Then he turned away, and Wertheimer, 
reading Incke in his face, answered an unspoken 
question by saying — 

“ No, sire, we have heard nothing. But this lady 
had come to me, just before your Highness’ en- 


THE WORLD OUTSIDE 


209 


trance, with some mention of Count Gottfried von 
Incke. I understood that he was concerned in the 
cause of her distress, and that she was about to tell 
me the whole history. It may be of importance to 
your Highness; indeed, I feel inclined to wager 
that it is.” 

Ferdinand looked at the girl inquiringly. Gisela’s 
sobs deepened and died. She put her hand into her 
bosom, and drew out the papers. Wertheimer 
started forward, but the Prince intercepted them, 
and the letters of Gottfried von Incke, with their 
weight of lying and treachery, rested in the hands 
of his first friend and bitterest enemy. 

“ They are found. ... At last ! The proofs — 
mark that, Wertheimer — the proofs.” He glanced 
up and down a page. “ You see, I know the writ- 
ing well enough; it’s Gottfried’s beyond question. 
I did not want this, for I knew the depths to which 
he had sunk; but they will do perhaps, to show the 
world that when Gottfried von Incke falls upon my 
sword he will not die a martyr. Their existence 
will satisfy my Princess, whose tender heart re- 
fuses to believe evil until the last extremity. I 
thank you, Fraulein ” — he bowed to Gisela — “ for 
doing me a great service. And now, are you able 
to tell us how you came by these papers, and in 


210 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


what way von Incke has been able (as I see by your 
face and dress) to bring fear upon you? 

He spoke so quietly, and with so little trace of 
the excitement under whose influence he had en- 
tered the room, that Gisela glanced at him, uncom- 
prehending, for the moment, that this was the calm 
in which a soldier steadies himself before the bat- 
tle. There had dropped to him, out of the distant 
skies, the one thing that was necessary to secure 
to him justification in the eyes of the woman of 
his life, and in those of the little world of which 
he was the centre. It might have been, too, in spite 
of his own words that there was satisfaction in the 
disappearance of the last impossible possibility that 
Gottfried von Incke was an innocent man. The in- 
stinct of Gisela’s sex, working once more, led her 
to knowledge that Merkewitz and Holseg had failed 
to obtain. This hasty young man was an apostle 
of reform; the impaling of evil upon his sword- 
point was the sacrament of his creed as he inter- 
preted it. Other men might do cleansing work 
with tongue or pen; Ferdinand, who came of a 
king-race of fighting ancestors from the Crusad- 
ers onwards, must find the blossom of his destiny 
in an outbreak of the animal. He must fight or 
die of atrophy; he must express his hatred of the 


THE WORLD OUTSIDE 


2II 


enemy by nimbleness of blade; he must vindi- 
cate his wife’s honour by the cunning of a wrist, 
and the quickness of an eye. And if success crowned 
him, and left him to take his place as a leader of 
men by virtue of these things, was it not as good 
a way to come to maturity of honour as any other ? 
Soul and body are one in this world of action, and, 
while their union holds, the flesh that fights may 
be entitled to a place beside the spirit that strives. 
Gisela, looking and learning, thought no more of 
the fear of life in jeopardy, and was glad only that 
the hour of reckoning was close at hand. For so 
might punishment fall upon the Count of Incke, 
and to Prince Ferdinand accrue the fulfilment of 
his lusty nature. God, who is always a partisan 
to a good woman, would, without doubt, defend 
the right. She plunged into her story, with a clear- 
ance at the outset of the mystery of Incke’s wherea- 
bouts. 

Count Gottfried von Incke,” she said, by way 
of preliminary, is at present in hiding in the inn of 
the Weissen Hirsch.” And when the emotion, ex- 
citement, and heat of question and answer that the 
statement caused had died away, she went on with 
her portrayal of the things that had happened to 
her father, to herself, and to Bothfield, ever since 


212 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


the hour in which Incke had first brought unrest 
to Radenstein. 

There was a long pause when she ended. 

Wertheimer’s brows were knitted deeply; he 
stroked his chin in meditation. Ferdinand sat back 
in his chair, with a face over which the signs of 
busy thought scudded like autumn clouds. Gisela 
watched them with an implicit faith; she had laid 
the welfare of those others in their hands with per- 
fect trust. 

This Bothfield,” the Prince said, at last. It’s 
an odd thing that he should be the fellow who es- 
caped me in the forest ! He meant well, of course ; 
but I can’t see wherein the credit lies, Fraulein, 
that you so persistently attribute to him. Of course 
he is in danger; and that forces our hand; unless 
he found the place too hot, and ran again.” 

He would never do that, sire ! ” Gisela cried 
indignantly. He was so brave, so ready to take 
everything upon his shoulders. I fear that he has 
been rash, and has put himself into the Count’s hands 
from some reckless motive of helping us, so.” 

Oh, that is your idea, Fraulein? It may be,” 
said the Prince, with polite doubt. The problem 
remains now — how to catch Incke without jeop- 
ardizing the position of the hostages he holds? 


THE WORLD OUTSIDE 


213 


How if your men surround the place, Wertheimer, 
and rush it? ” 

“ That has been tried when less illustrious crimi- 
nals than Count Gottfried were wanted,” Wert- 
heimer said, and he shook his head. “ It proved 
abortive, your Highness, for the reason that the 
inn is riddled with holes like a sieve, and that the 
men escape underground — or by the roof — ^by paths 
that we have not yet discovered. For myself, I 
confess to your Highness that my knowledge of 
the ways of the Weissen Hirsch is too slight for 
use. My professional duties, till yesterday, did not 
require that information. The two men who have 
made a study of the Reformers are Herr Holseg 
and Captain Cossebaude, and they have been un- 
fortunate enough to incur your Highness’ dis- 
pleasure.” 

“ Oh, if that is all, I had already intended merely 
to degrade and not to dismiss them,” Ferdinand 
said. “ They meant well ; only people must not 
even mean well when the attitude represents dis- 
obedience to my commands. They shall be rein- 
stated at once as sub-Chief and second Captain, 
with a warning that I hope will do them good. We 
must not lose time; we have to get into the Weissen 
Hirsch as soon as possible, for the sake of Herr 
von Radenstein, and — and the Englishman.” 


214 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


Gisela rose and courtseyed profoundly to the 
Prince. 

If you please, sire, will you give me permis- 
sion to depart? 

^‘Togo? Where?’’ 

To the Weissen Plirsch, and my father.” 

What ! Back to that haunt of pestilence ! To 
the hands of Incke! My dear Fraulein, it couldn’t 
be permitted for an instant. You must stay here 
till we bring your father back to you. It will be 
an everlasting regret to me that the Herr von Ra- 
denstein should ever have been allowed to miscon- 
ceive himself in opposition to me; I feel it to be a 
reflection on my methods, that a traitor should have 
found his fears so ready to rise and be played upon. 
I have to make reparation for that, and I can best 
do it by restoring your father to you, and to his 
home, as speedily as may be.” 

Yes, your Highness.” Gisela was resolute. 

But an attempt to obtain entrance with strategy 
or force, by your Highness’ police and servants, 
will be attended with danger to those whom you 
would help. I escaped from the Weissen Hirsch 
without the people there noticing anything unusual. 
The twilight is falling now; in half-an-hour it will 
be dark. What is to hinder me from slipping in 


THE WORLD OUTSIDE 


215 


under cover of the darkness, and now, that our 
perplexities are removed, taking my father by the 
hand and piloting him into safety? If I do not 
return — why, your Highness will know that my 
father and I are sharing our troubles once more. 
You would not keep me from his side, when he is 
in this difficulty, or forbid me to take the easiest 
way to extricate him? I have already been away 
much longer than I intended; he will be consumed 
with anxiety for me. I beg your Highness to let 
me go now, to find my father and to bring him 
quickly into comfort.” 

“ There is some common-sense in that, sire,” 
Wertheimer said. “ What has kept Herr von Ra- 
denstein a prisoner has not been an actual, but an 
imaginary bar. That is removed. Why should 
not Fraulein, his daughter, get him into safety be- 
fore we begin to hunt out Incke and his rats ? The 
plan sounds feasible; but it must be carried out at 
once. We don’t know how long it will be before 
these Reformers find out the innkeeper’s death, 
and then the fat will be in the fire.” 

“ But they may have found that out already.” 

“ There are chances against it, and then the body 
was to be hidden in the Englishman’s room; that 
throws him into the place of greatest danger. Count 


2i6 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


Gottfried will protect Herr von Radenstein and his 
daughter for his own ends — your Highness remem- 
bers what those ends are. He only wants to hold 
them under his thumb: he’ll throw this Bothfield 
to the wolves without compunction if he finds him. 
... I pray he’s not taken alarm at the loss of the 
overcoat! But it all means haste — haste — haste! 
And certainly, for our purpose as well, I think, as 
for his own, it is advisable that the Fraulein von 
Radenstein should act as she so courageously offers 
to do.” 

The Prince hesitated still; there were signs of a 
struggle in his eyes. Gisela caught his hand again, 
and kissed it. 

“Your Highness does not forbid it?” 

Prince Ferdinand gazed at her very doubtfully, 
very fatherly, for a few seconds. He was, perhaps, 
wondering, as princes must sometimes wonder, at 
the strength of the little brief authority in which 
the men who sit on thrones are decked. It is possi- 
ble to be a prince, and still to feel an unworthiness 
when the lips of innocence appeal. Gisela’s be- 
sought him with a respectful and velvet touch upon 
his knuckles; he had known far other kisses, and 
he drew his hand away. 

“ No, Fraulein Gisela, I cannot forbid it. Go, 
'mein Kind, and God be with you ! ” 


THE WORLD OUTSIDE 


217 


He had hardly spoken before she was gone from 
the room, and they saw her dart across the portico, 
and be swallowed up in the descending dusk. 

If they traced her here the Prince said, 

half aloud. 

And saw her come out ? Why, she was in the 
stream yonder in an instant, sire,’’ Wertheimer 
said easily. She is brave, and now we must fol- 
low her up, for if she does not return with the 
father speedily, it will be because events have 
marched in the Weissen Hirsch.” 

‘^Ay, ay!” said the Prince, bursting back into 
his old impetuosity. '' Where are Holseg and 
Cossebaude ? Hurry ! hurry ! ” 


CHAPTER XI 


BEHIND STONE WALLS 

Horrible and heavy things sat upon the chest 
of Francis Bothfield through a troubled slumber; 
they were nightmares, the legitimate offspring of 
sandwiches and irregular feeding, and revolutionary 
excitements in a hitherto monotonously-placid life. 
Yet he slept long and deeply, for his conscience 
was sweet, and his body was tired out by the exer- 
tions he had undergone. When he awoke, it was to 
see a strange and apparently supernatural light 
glimmering through a barred space above him. He 
lay quite still because his head ached, while he re- 
membered by degrees where he was, and how he 
came there. He arrived very slowly at the conclu- 
sion that the vague, milky rays that shimmered in 
his cell were twice-diluted moonbeams, strayed from 
a free and boundless firmament. 

He sat up, and found that his head was not the 
only part of him that ached. He felt as if he had 
been ground in a mortar, and stuck together loosely 
after. His hands were gritty with dirt, his feet 
were icy cold, and little spiteful nips of rheuma- 


2i8 


BEHIND STONE WALLS 


2ig 


tism told him that well-bedded gentlemen of forty 
should not suddenly take to stone floors for resting 
place. All these sensations marched by deliberately, 
and then recollections of the crises of the day 
startled him into thorough consciousness. 

So he was still Bothfield, and not a sentient rag- 
bag, upon which imps of darkness were playing 
leapfrog. The Weisse Hirsch really existed, and 
did a little more than exist; it had unpleasantly in- 
truded upon a well-earned repose. Gottfried von 
Incke was a reality ; and ugh ! what was that which 
gleamed white upon the paving-stones? It was, 
of course, only the freak of over- wrought eyeballs; 
but still, Brother Kurt the innkeeper was a reality, 
a stark, grinning, dreadful truth, that played hide- 
and-seek in all the corners. Yet, thank God, against 
all these, Gisela weighed down the scale. 

Moon . . . moonlight. Ha! Why had Incke 
not returned before the night? . . . Was she, 
then, not yet set free from the risks of this noisome 
place? Had the Reformers sprung upon her, or 
had Incke learned, without his telling, the true fate 
of the letters? He did not doubt that they were 
in the hands of the police, or that retribution was 
already nearing the Count from the outside world. 
But it was maddening not to know whether he, the 


220 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


stupid Bothfield, had or had not helped her, by his 
supreme effort, to escape the sucking eddies of the 
whirlpool. 

Iron jangled on the other side of the door, and 
the locks groaned. Bothfield pricked his ears and 
strained his eyes, and the door swung upon its 
hinges. He looked for the glint of Incke’s cheeks 
to follow the yellow light of the candle, but above 
the hand that shaded the flame he saw, instead, 
merely the face of Anton Goldberg, with the out- 
lines of his head and body shaded into obscurity 
in the Egyptian darkness of the passage. Gold- 
berg entered; locked the door; placed the candle- 
stick upon the flags, and tossed a couple of rapiers 
beside it. 

“ Whe — ew ! ” he said, and his voice rang hollow 
in the cell. “ It’s deuced cold down here.” 

“Why did you not come sooner?” Bothfield 
said. “ I can only guess the time by the moon- 
beams, but it must be hours since you left. Is — are 
Herr von Radenstein and his daughter safe ? ” 

“ Yes, they’re housed with Uncle Jacob, and I’m 
glad enough of it, between you and me, English- 
man. It isn’t a business for ladies. Time? It must 
be ten o’clock; but I can tell you there has been 
enough to fill the interval, enough for fifty hours.” 


BEHIND STONE WALLS 


221 


“ Where is the Count ? ” 

“ Oh ! ” Goldberg looked at him with his head 
on one side, like one rooster surveying another. 
“Do you want to see him, then? I don’t think I 
should, in your case.” 

“ I haven’t any pressing wish for his company,” 
Bothfield said. “ But I thought he would be anx- 
ious to come with you when your errand was 
done. . . . And so they’re free? When did they 
go ? . . . Thank God for that ! ” 

“ At seven. So say I. Uncle Jacob was de- 
lighted ; he was a money-lender once, and he’s tried 
to scratch his way into good society ever, since, and 
it will have none of him. So you can guess how 
he jumped at von Radenstein, a genuine landed 
gentleman of prodigious pedigree. I say, now, 
what made you so anxious to arrange that? You 
were a little bit mad this afternoon, weren’t you ? ” 

“ I boiled, I suppose, when I saw your cousin be- 
fore me, and remembered his treacheries to two 
innocent people. But, however dearly I may pay 
for the buffet that I gave him, I shall still rejoice 
that I was able to deliver it.” 

“ Yes, yes; Gottfried’s ways are not always nice. 
But he’s a devil for mischief, and a swordsman is 
sure to find pickings in the mud behind him. How- 


222 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


ever, that’s neither here nor there. . . . H’m, I’m 
marked a little, and I slipped down cautiously 
enough, God knows.” 

He held his hands towards the candle and ex- 
amined them critically, and Bothfield saw that his 
knuckles were scraped and bleeding. 

“ What has been happening ? ” he said. He felt 
a little spasm of relief, because he seemed to be as- 
sured, by Goldberg’s deliberation, that something 
had occurred to make his — and Incke’s private af- 
fairs of second-rate importance. 

“ Those dogs of Reformers have tried to snap,” 
Goldberg said. “ The Prince has heard that Gott- 
fried is across the border; there won’t be a stone 
in Amaro left unturned till he finds him. Gott- 
fried wants to take the bull by the horns, d’ye see? 
To stir up these fellows, and push them forward, 
so that, however badly things may turn against 
him, they will have gone too far to be able to desert 
him. Of course he’s got to get the letters, and he’s 
mad to get them, but we haven’t had a moment. A 
file of mules are lambs to drive compared with 
these churls. There have been whips to send out 
to the sub-centres, and there has been a long fight 
to make the blockheads see which way they’re 
wanted to go.” 


BEHIND STONE WALLS 


223 


Why?’^ 

Well ; it’s Kurt’s death. They are stupid with 
suspicion, and they are terribly afraid Incke means 
to sell them. They don’t understand a gentleman. 
It was nasty, I can tell you, once or twice; they 
seemed to want to rush us, and there wasn’t a 
sword to hand. . . . Wouldn’t let Gottfried go, 
either; ‘You are our leader, stay with us’ — over 
and over again. Then the sending away of the 
Radensteins — that looked like a retreat, and they 
were sharp to see it. Gottfried was honey at first; 
then he swore, and cursed, and beat at them with 
words. They want to wait till the Altmarkt Fair 
is over — rogues like mine host here and Fingel- 
mann get rare pickings when the country folk come 
in — and when they saw Incke was over eager, they 
laid their ears back. Difficult to persuade them 
that what has waited for three hundred years 
couldn’t wait three months, and, unfortunately, 
while Gottfried was in prison they learned enough 
of the Society’s workings to know truth from di- 
plomacy when they met it. Oh, it’s a nice mess! 
So Incke had to stay, and, I tell you, ’twasn’t easy 
for me to get away by the Strangers’ Chimney, 
unobserved.” 

“ Ah ... is that the bottomless cupboard in my 
room ?. ” 


224 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


how? To be sure, you found it out, and 
made use of it. It's called the Strangers' Chimney 
because they say inconvenient people who didn't 
know, have been helped to heaven that way. I 
barked my knuckles over it, as you see. . • . But 
this is not what I came for." 

He paused, and looked across, above the candle, 
at Mr. Bothfield. 

Our part of the bargain's done ; you've got to 
say where you hid those letters. I like you, Eng- 
lishman, but there is no doubt you have got your- 
self into a pickle. Cousin Gottfried has something 
very disagreeable in store for you, I make no 
doubt. My hope is he'll give you a chance to fight. 
I brought the rapiers, as you see, and if he 
can follow me here, there they are, all ready for 
persuasion. What else to do for you, I don't 
know." 

'' Why not open the door and let me out ? " 

^‘As well kick you into the river, with a stone 
round your neck. The Reformers are humming 
like bees in a hive; half a hundred others have 
poured in, and they would give their noses, every 
one, to find you. They have their eyes open, I 
promise you, at every door, for they fear Incke 
might try to leave them." 


BEHIND STONE WALLS 


225 


English saying puts it, ' between the devil 
and the deep sea.’ That seems to be my situation.” 

You mean — ? Yes, certainly; that is so. Well, 
and now about the letters ! ” 

Stop one moment. Fraulein von Radenstein 
was not distressed when she left? She seemed 
easy — cheerful ? ” 

She was all right, my friend, but she raised the 
devil in Gottfried. ' Where is the Englishman ? 
Do you know anything of the Englishman ? ’ One 
could see she feared for you, and Gottfried had 
suspicions at once. He swore he knew nothing, 
and, of course, I kept a quiet tongue. But she was 
anxious for you, there’s no doubt of that. A wink 
of the eye, and it’s my belief she would have stayed 
here to look for you. . . . Gottfried had cause to 
repent his promise later, for it was plain that her 
presence in the inn would have reassured that howl- 
ing mob.” 

‘^Ah ! ” A frown came out of Bothfield’s face 
as he pictured the generous anxiety with which 
Gisela must be still tormented. And, Heaven knew 
— though Heaven be praised that she did not ! — 
there was cause for it. 

“Well, well, and now for the letters?” 

Francis Bothfield stood back in the narrow cell. 


226 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


and inly reviewed, with a sensation of finality, the 
faint hopes, and the many fears of the situation. 
The hare-brained warrior who was Incke's messen- 
ger had elementary ideas of succour : perhaps it was 
because they were all that could be attempted. In 
a little while, no doubt, the police would fall upon 
the place, but would they take it without a hard 
and a too-lengthy struggle? The Reformers were 
in force; they would fight, and scurry, and fight 
again. Or, if not that, they would vanish at the 
alarm into their underground fastnesses, and woe 
betide the lonely man they found already there! 
The chance for Bothfield was that Incke’s hands 
would be too full, and, when he heard the truth, his 
knowledge too dear, to let him waste time upon his 
prisoner. So, if he left him close-held, he would 
be barred from the furies of the democrats. That 
was the slender thread of comfort that remained; 
it was little enough to hang a man’s mortality upon. 

I despatched the Count Gottfried von Incke’s cor- 
respondence with Baroness Kirtschoff direct to the 
Head of Police, as soon as I discovered it,” he said. 

'' The Devil you did ! ” Goldberg gasped. ‘‘ And 
when ? ” 

‘‘ Hours ago,” Bothfield said quietly. ‘‘And 
from here. So long ago that I hope, by now, the 


BEHIND STONE WALLS 


227 


police will have made escape impossible for any one 
inside these walls.” 

“ What ! You’ve trapped us ! Goif im Himmel! 
Is that what comes of charity? Gottfried must be 
warned ! ” He sprang towards the door. 

“Hang charity!” Bothfield shouted, and a gust 
of defiance swept down upon him. “ I fight for 
my own hand — and another’s. You can tell the 
Count Gottfried — no, by George, you shan’t ! ” 

He stamped upon the candle, and snatched a 
rapier. 

“ Look here I ” he said. “ You talk of fighting, 
fighting, all the time. Now, the longer you and I 
stay in here together the better for me. That’s a 
stout door, and you’ve locked it on this side. Leave 
handling those keys, Herr Anton Goldberg, and let 
us see who is the lucky man ! ” 

“ Without a light ? ” Goldberg queried in aston- 
ishment, vastly taken by surprise by the sudden 
attack. But he picked up the other rapier and leapt 
nimbly, nevertheless, into an attitude of defence. 

His alacrity spoke of glee for the projected bat- 
tle. Nothing Bothfield could have suggested would 
have recommended itself more seductively to the 
heavy young man, who was, in the twinkling of a 
sword, heavy no longer. 


228 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


Garde d vous! '' he cried. The quicker the 
better, Englishman, for Eve to get to Cousin Gott- 
fried!’’ 

And for answer Bothfield lunged at him, driven 
forward by a foreign and maddening spur, the joy 
of fighting for the fighting’s sake. The blades 
clashed, and in that music was drowned the issue — 
ay, and, for the first time since Gisela had met him, 
the newborn craving for the woman. 

A mist of moonbeams hung in the cell, and it 
filtered between the combatants, making a witness 
in a shroud-shaped reflection on the wall. The 
two were in shadow, shadow out of which leapt the 
swords, crossing, darting, clashing; an arch of 
death that was as mobile as pestilence, as swift as 
calamity. The film of moonlight drooped ; it 
seemed, as it struck between the adversaries, to be 
a futile peacemaker, a silver gentleness, that had 
strayed unwittingly from its place in bridal cham- 
bers to this den of cabined beasts. 

Bothfield was certainly mad. He fought with 
a crazy disregard of science, and a supreme con- 
tempt for his own safety. He was only — and he 
felt something that was not his normal sense toss 
soul and body into the endeavour — only bent upon 
sheathing the quivering rapier in the stuff before 


BEHIND STONE WALLS 


229 


him. He wanted to feel it slide through the clothes, 
to sink deep into the flesh, to meet a live resistance 
in place of steel and empty air. And with this de- 
sire he thrust, and beat, and lunged, groaning as he 
fought. He was running amok at last, and with a 
wildness that was acute reaction from the lethargy 
of his dead existence. He had suffered, and hun- 
gered, and loved for the first time in the last two 
days; his balance was unhung by the experience, 
and the raw nerves were taking their revenge. If 
he had not fought, he would have wept, and, as it 
was, he fought like a man possessed. 

Goldberg had the skill of the practised amateur; 
but he had not genius, and he was unable to adapt 
the precise tactics he had exercised in light and 
space to the narrow cell and its obscurity. Yet he 
knew his business, and before six passes had gone 
his sword had slipped on Bothfield’s collar-bone 
and ripped through coat and muscle. He snatched 
it back in certainty of victory, with expectation that 
the man would fall. But to his utter amazement, 
there was no more result than if he had touched 
the fellow with a feather. As a matter of fact, 
Bothfield was beyond sensation, and knew only 
that he was pricked by the momentary check in his 
onslaught. The next instant he had caught the 


230 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


opportunity given by that unguarded pause, and his 
blade was home, deep home, between Goldberg’s 
ribs. 

The stricken man stumbled forward, and as he 
fell Bothfield’s wrist tore the rapier out with a 
swift, clean withdrawal. He stood as if he were 
dazed, running his fingers along the blade to find 
out where the blood began, and wondering, in 
childish irritation, whence the mad pleasure of fight 
had fled. He had a desire, for the minute, to kick 
the blundering thing that had thrown up the game 
so soon, and urge it to its feet again. 

Goldberg sobbed. He was absolutely still, and 
jumbled into a heap that did not look in the least 
like a man, but the sob was horribly full of human 
pain. Other sobs came after it; the strangling 
breaths of a man whose lung was choked with blood. 
There followed, in a little while, a whistling noise 
in the windpipe, and then the heap became a man 
again, and began to struggle upon the ground, 
raising itself and sinking back, clutching with its 
hands, and trying to draw itself out of the vice of 
agony, with a dumb and frightful persistency. 

The drunkenness of passion was sobered by the 
spectacle. Something gave way in Bothfield’s 
heart, and the scales dropped from his eyes. He 


BEHIND STONE WALLS 231 

was once more himself, a self-accusing being, chilly 
with the remembrance that the man upon the floor 
had wished him well. The rapier clattered down 
as he fell upon his knees, trembling, to search for 
the candle and get light upon what he was afraid 
to see. 

He found matches in the tray, and lit, and looked. 
He was startled and joyed, together, by the first 
thing that met his gaze. It was the conscious eye 
of Goldberg looking into his. The young man had 
ceased trying to rise, and was stretched upon his 
face, with his cheek sideways on the flags. He 
looked at Bothfield with an absolute friendliness, 
even, too, with the twisted ghost of a smile. 

“Are you badly hurt?” Bothfield said, bending 
over him. 

Goldberg’s mouth twitched in the attempt at 
speech. 

“ Pretty bad. Don’t touch me. You — can — 
fight — I say.” 

“ Give me the keys. I must get help for you. 
Tell me anything that I can do.” 

He put his ear down and listened for an answer. 

“What — a — fight!” sighed Goldberg; and was 
silent. 

His late adversary turned him upon his back. 


232 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


raised his head against the wall of the cell, and 
tore his vest and shirt open to see if there was 
blood to staunch. As he did this he discovered 
that a warm red rain was dropping from him on 
to the prostrate man. So he had been wounded! 
. . . He searched with his hand, and found that 
the blood was leaking from somewhere near his 
shoulder. He stuffed a handkerchief into his shirt, 
and went on with his work. 

The wound was a neat round hole, nicked on the 
right side of the chest. The place bled hardly at 
all ; only, each time the breast rose with the painful 
breathing, a few drops of blood oozed out, and 
smeared the white skin. Bothfield wiped them 
away, and looked down helplessly. What more 
could he do? He took the keys and went towards 
the door. 

His hands shook, and it took him some little time 
to fit the right key into the lock. In that space he 
wondered what would happen when he got outside. 
He had to find help. It was probable — nay, it was 
certain — that in finding it he would meet with one 
or other of the people who were eager to revenge 
themselves upon him. He hesitated, and picked up 
a sword. On the contrary, if he stayed in the cell, 
he might sustain a siege until the police raid put 


BEHIND STONE WALLS 


233 


besiegers to flight. ... In which case Goldberg 
would most likely die. He weighed the situation 
very gravely, with clear, steady thought. . . . 
Heavens, how he longed to see Gisela again ! 

Then he opened the door. 

The passage was void; the candlelight was baf- 
fled, at a few paces’ distance, by the darkness, but 
there was an absolute silence near at hand. Further 
away, beyond and above and behind intervening 
doors, there was the sound of men’s voices, rising 
and sinking in argument and anger. The door of 
the council chamber was swinging open still, and 
the moonbeams, which came from the window, 
whence they had sped through the inner one into 
the cell, were bathing the empty room in a sea of 
splendour. A lean rat, transformed into a hob- 
goblin, whisked from the table across the silver 
floor. It had been feasting on the last of Incke’s 
crumbs. 

Bothfield looked to right and left, and made 
note of the distant turmoil. That meant men, and 
he must find them. There was no way, to his 
knowledge, through the room: he would try the 
other. 

He retraced a couple of steps, till he stood at the 
door of the cell. He gave a look inside, to see if 


234 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


Goldberg were still in a stupor. As he did so, the 
head against the wall opened its eyes, and the voice 
whispered — 

“ Don’t leave me ! ” 

“What! Are you suffering again?” 

“ Don’t leave me ! ” 

“ I must,” Bothfield said. “ I am going to get 
help; I shall be back very soon. Be patient, and 
you will soon be in comfort.” 

“ You mustn’t leave me,” croaked the voice. 
The young man was so stiff and rigid, that it was 
difficult to believe the sound came from him; even 
his lips seemed scarcely to move. “ There are rats 
down here; they attacked a man once, in this very 
cell. Don’t go I ” 

“Yes, yes, my friend; that is all very well, but 
you must have your wound seen to. Look here — 
will you let me carry you up above? ” 

He had re-entered the cell, and stooped down 
again, so that he might hear better what the other 
had to say. 

“ I’ll carry you in my arms,” he said, soothingly, 
“ if you are afraid of the rats. Though, believe 
me, they would never have time to attack you. 
There, let me get my arm underneath.” 

He stopped suddenly, clutched at the rapier. 


BEHIND STONE WALLS 


235 


and rushed to the entrance of the cell. A door had 
clanged near by, so loudly that the concussion was 
like a pistol-shot, and the clatter of swift-approach- 
ing footsteps was in the passage before its echoes 
had died away. Bothfield drew back into shelter, 
not a moment too soon to avoid collision with — 
Gottfried von Incke. 

Incke was breathless, and there was a streak of 
blood across his cheek. He was armed with a horn- 
handled knife, such as made part of the table fur- 
niture of the inn, and he looked distraught and 
desperate. 

You — free ! he said, and paused. Then — 

Stay there, or I’ll cut your throat. . . . Where 
are the letters ? ” 

Stop a bit,” said Bothfield, and he held the 
rapier on guard, with a ready eye towards the 
enemy. Here is Herr Anton Goldberg badly 
wounded. Help must be sent for him.” 

‘‘ Anton ! ” He looked into the cell, where the 
candle burned by the wounded man’s head. Bah ! 
— when I wanted him, the fool! I might have 
known disaster would have come of trusting him 
alone. So you fought him — you? He seems to 
have had a lesson . . . teach him to let rats out 
of traps. Now, quick, where are the letters?” 


236 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


“You will send help for your cousin?” 

“ Send help ? Why, he’s nearly dead. I’ve other 
work to do. Let him go. Appeal to the Reform- 
ers yourself; I’ve had enough of them. Sharp, the 
letters, or I’ll stick you ! ” 

“ You utter brute ! ” Bothfield said in English. 
“ Damn it, you deserve all you’ll get ! ” Then in 
German — “ The letters are with the police, Herr 
Graf, where I hope and believe you will be before 
long.” 

“ So — so — so ! ” said Incke, and the double frown 
cut up into his forehead. “ I owe you a big score, 
Englishman — the Reformers’ mutiny, and Gisela, 
and that hand-slap. Take payment, then ! ” 

He sprang upon Bothfield, rushing him off his 
feet, and burst through the rapier guard with his 
upraised knife. 

Bothfield flung his arms round him. They fell 
together, and rolled across the floor in a close em- 
brace. Incke writhed to draw his armed hand 
down, and Bothfield hugged him about the ribs, 
while the useless rapier spun into a corner. 

The knife was worked loose, for Bothfield’s 
shoulder told now, and the wound bit so painfully 
at the pressure that he shrieked. Incke struggled 
up, caught at his throat, and wrenched the knife 


BEHIND STONE WALLS 


237 


free, flinging his hand back that he might bring 
it down again with a clear sweep. Bothfield in- 
stinctively shut his eyes, sick at the awful immi- 
nence of death. There was a clash, a rattle, and 
he opened them again. The blow had not fallen, 
and Incke’s hand was empty. 

Goldberg had returned to life. He was lurching 
to and fro, blood upon his mouth, and his eyes 
burning. He had risen as one who rises from the 
dead, and the knife that he had jerked from Incke’s 
fingers was lying out of reach behind him. 

“ I’m not dead yet, Gottfried, you see,” he 
croaked. “ Look here, I believe — I — could fight — 
another round ! ” 

He had a rapier in his hand, and it waved to and 
fro tipsily above Bothfield’s head. 

“ Kick me that knife, you fool,” panted Incke, 
his hand stiff on Bothfield’s throat. I must settle 
scores with this rascal.” 

“Try it,” rasped the voice again. “Try it, 
Gottfried, and I’ll run you — through. You’re in 
danger. Better run ! ” 

Bothfield tore and wrenched at the hand that 
pinned him. 

“ Lie still ! ” hissed Incke, through set teeth. 
“ Ah, do you think to get the better of me ?, Take 
it, then!”- 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


238 

He smashed his fist into the upturned face, raised 
it, and was about to batter again. The clutch of 
fingers sank into Bothfield’s throat, his eyeballs 
started. His brain seemed about to burst; the cell 
buzzed with flashing, zigzag specks of light, and 
his head was filled with an intolerable noise. He 
heaved himself up in convulsive struggle, and even 
as he did so Goldberg made a feeble lunge at the 
would-be murderer, and fell, insensible, across 
them both. Bothfield rolled free by a superhuman 
effort, and saw the Count scramble to his feet, white 
and baffled. 

The snap of a revolver cut through the pause. 
It was muffled to Bothfield’s ears, which were deaf 
and singing, and what followed it came only as a 
faint murmur of far-off men. But it was nearer 
than he could tell, for Incke leapt at the sound, 
hurled himself across the cell to snatch at Gold- 
berg’s fallen rapier, and was swallowed up, upon 
the instant, in the empty blackness of the corridor. 
The honours of the field were with the wounded 
men. 

Bothfield propped himself against the wall for a 
minute, not caring what might happen till he found 
breath and hearing. He was dazed by atrocious 
twinges, that spread from where Incke’s fist had 


BEHIND STONE WALLS 


239 


fallen, and that darted cruelly about his head. Pres- 
ently, however, they resolved themselves into a dull 
ache, which found echoes in the neglected shoulder. 
Still, these pains were bearable. He staggered to 
his feet again. 

Up above, it became clear, a furious conflict was 
raging. Another shot followed, and another, and 
with them surged such a medley of hoarse cries, 
trampling feet, and crashing wood as showed that 
the stronghold was being taken by storm. And not 
bloodlessly ; the growl of voices was cleft sometimes 
by a shriek, and always afterwards rumbled a half- 
tone lower — the deep note of desperate men. 

Anton Goldberg lay upon his face, where he had 
been thrust aside by Incke. Bothfield bent to him 
and felt his heart. It beat, but faintly : he was un- 
conscious, and scarcely, it seemed, possessed of 
strength enough to hold to life. He brought the 
candle close to him, and noted that his lips were 
blue, his eyes half-shut, and that there was sweat 
upon his forehead. Bothfield was still inexperi- 
enced in death, though he had met it in unmistakable 
form only yesterday: he feared to look long upon 
the face below him, lest he should see it drop into 
grey soullessness before his eyes. And all the time 
he ached, and his head swam, so that it was im- 


240 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


possible for him to tell how far or how long his own 
strength would carry him. 

He stood upon his feet once more, and walked 
into the passage. He had a confused idea that he 
had to get help, though no inspiration arose to tell 
him how to do it. If Incke had returned then, he 
would have dropped at the sight of him. He went 
into the council chamber, rocking and stumbling 
into a seat. His feebleness and impotency came out 
and danced at him. There did not seem to be any 
way for a half alive man to help a dying one, and he 
must have time — rest — ^before his wits would work. 

The clamour and the stamping continued over- 
head. Down below here, they seemed entirely 
ignored and overlooked. . . . Bothfield felt feebly 
aggrieved that no one but Incke had even thought 
it worth while to search him out for the killing, 
when it was he who had brought crisis and calamity 
to the Reformers. He had killed Kurt, and yet 
Kurt was still unrevenged. He had ruined the 
Count, and yet the Count had fled with his retalia- 
tion unaccomplished. But he had not escaped 
scatheless; for he was all alone here, with a dying 
man; wounded and alone, cut off by the horrible 
solitude of this forgotten place from the sight of 
Gisela. He laid his head upon his arm and felt the 


BEHIND STONE WALLS 


241 


tears fill his eyes, the while he battled forlornly 
against his weakness. Afterwards, in looking back 
to this collapse, it seemed to him that he must have 
become slightly delirious, and so lost grip of the 
situation. He raised his head presently, conscious 
that he must contrive to carry Goldberg out, some- 
how, into the free, fresh air. 

He walked towards the entrance to the room, and 
then stopped and rubbed his eyes. The passage, 
that he had left empty, had people in it. They were 
grouped at the cell-door, and somebody, whom Both- 
field could not see, was inside with the sick man. 
A tall police-officer had a lantern, raised so that it 
lit the group. It shone full upon his own face, and 
Bothfield saw that he was Captain Cossebaude. 

There was a black beard behind ; it was Holseg’s. 
The fourth — the fourth person was a woman. 
Bothfield gave a cry of astonishment that made the 
new-comers turn, and discover him. Holseg moved 
forward, visibly startled by the blood-stained appari- 
tion, and the one behind him was revealed. 

Gisela ! 


CHAPTER XII 


CLEAR SHINING AFTER RAIN 

A MAN whose mind and body have lately suffered 
severe and unaccustomed handling, may be forgiven 
if his intelligence is temporarily injured by the 
process. Bothfield felt the delight of eyes at the 
sight of Gisela ; he was vastly relieved that help had 
come for Goldberg ; and yet he did not express either 
of these sensations when he leant back against the 
door-post and burst into a cackle of laughter. It 
was the escape-valve for his conception of the jest 
that Fate had played upon him. He had been a 
squirrel in a cage, working frantically within a nar- 
row compass, and lo ! the wheel he trod led nowhere, 
and he had dreamed of pine forests. The amazing 
futility of his adventures gibbered at him through 
the bars. His dizzy brain sdzed the fact of Gisela' s 
presence in the inn, and refused to qualify it by 
grasp of the meaning of those other faces. She was 
still in the place of miseries, and he had thought she 
was safe from it ! 

The man who had been attending to Goldberg 
rose at the sound ; and Bothfield saw that he was the 


CLEAR SHINING AFTER RAIN 


243 


Prince’s surgeon. He looked over Holseg’s shoulder 
and said — 

“ He will do for the present. . . . Hey, so you 
have found the Englishman? Let me pass, please. 
He needs some overhauling, I can see.” 

Bothfield said, with extended finger — 

“ What does she do here ? I made Incke promise 
to send her away. He was in a vice ; he had to do 
it, and then he was to make mince-meat of me after. 
That was fair, wasn’t it ? ” He glared at the group. 
“ Wasn’t that a fair bargain? I to stay, and she to 
go. I to stay and be. — ^And yet they have dragged 
her back again ! ” 

“ Light-headed. Well, at least we have found 
him alive,” Holseg said. “ Come, Cossebaude ; we 
must join the others. Doctor, will you see to these 
two till we can send some one to help you? . . . 
Manage them alone ? Good. Fraulein von Raden- 
stein, we owe you much for your courage and your 
guidance. We will leave you now, by your per- 
mission, with Dr. Noden, and I think we can assure 
you that you will be safe.” 

“ Perhaps Dr. Noden will let me help? ” Gisela’s 
voice said, and she looked timidly at Goldberg, and 
then, with a gaze that rested in pitying bewilder- 
ment, upon Bothfield. 


244 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


Oh, aye, certainly,’’ the doctor said. He made 
a step towards Bothfield, and was checked by his 
outstretched arm. Holseg and Cossebaude lingered 
in the passage for a minute, and Bothfield began to 
clamour again. He was aware that he was speak- 
ing recklessly ; he was sure that Gisela must despise 
him for the exhibition, and yet he babbled at them 
all in a frenzy to let loose the flood-gates of mor- 
tification. 

Oh, aye, certainly ! ” he mocked, mimicking the 
doctor’s level accent. Stay here, in the place from 
which I staked my life to rescue you — you, a queen 
of forests, within touch of Brother Kurt! A maze 
— a maze — I have trodden the round of a maze, and 
here lies Francis Bothfield, who tried to do his duty, 
— no, who had his duty thrust upon him — prone at 
the beginning of the tramp ! ” 

'' So, so ! ” said Noden, and he soothed him as 
a nurse comforts a fretful child. '' Sit down upon 
that chair, there’s a good fellow, and let me see 
what has happened under your coat and collar.” 

'' Let me be,” Bothfield said. I did my best, 
and I swear I never knew how small my best could 
be. I am a failure. Let me be. God help you, 
Fraulein, to find a better champion.” 

He rocked before them, his face a pulp of bruises. 


CLEAR SHINING AFTER RAIN 


245 


his cheeks ablaze with fever, the stain upon his coat 
increasing. The doctor gave a gesture of dismay: 
this patient was beyond submission. He was still 
arguing and cajoling unsuccessfully, when Gisela 
slipped by his arm, and laid soft beseeching hands 
upon the rebel. 

'' Be quiet, Herr Bothfield,’’ she said, and she 
passed her fingers across his lips. '' You shall not 
blame yourself. Sit there and let Dr. Noden see 
to you, and tell me — gently now — what has hap- 
pened to you since we parted hours ago. We have 
been bitterly anxious for you ; you must forgive me 
if you think I have been headstrong. Tell me just 
what has passed here, and then you shall know my 
story. Come ! 

The brush of her finger-tips brought calmness, 
and hurried the man to reason. It soothed, and 
convinced, and restrained. Bothfield came out of 
frenzy as a dreamer wakes ; he was weak indeed, and 
wounded, but his wits were only jarred, and he 
could tell now they were not scattered. There was 
a balm in the girhs touch that a man might gladly 
fail for; a delight for which he could drag tired 
limbs, joyfully, through the bogs of humiliation. 
Futility and failure seemed no longer to be wounds 
that rankled; the healing caress had drawn the 
fever out. 


246 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


Bothfield delivered himself up to the doctor, and 
found that a nip of brandy jerked him into yet 
clearer sanity. His voice dropped, weakly, into the 
naive telling of the story of his endeavours. What 
need to blur the picture of his struggles or moderate 
them, or be humble, when even her lightest finger- 
touch could search the chambers of his heart? He 
laid the truth in Gisela’s hands, while the pity and 
applause in her face bound up his spirit, even as 
Noden’s skill ministered to his body’s wounds. 

So, for the second time, in their second meeting, 
there was a confidence given between them. Noth- 
ing was left untold: the alternations of cowardice 
and spurious courage ; the strain upon a mind un- 
used to ready judgment; upon a body weakened by 
long indulgence into physical disability; the crack- 
ing tension thrown upon the casing of easy selfish- 
ness; the vacillation, the fear that a call to action 
stirred in a long-passive egotist. The motive power 
was not explained, for not then did Bothfield under- 
stand it fully, or judge how once more Heaven, in 
lighting love, had lit a lamp to show the narrow way. 
That part was still unfolded mystery. But, as he 
spoke of his first sight of Incke, of the grisly Kurt 
and his hiding-place, of his effort at escape by the 
Strangers’ Chimney, of his wanderings in the cellars 


CLEAR SHINING AFTER RAIN 


247 


of the inn, of the council chamber and all that he 
saw therein, of the resolution by which he was urged 
to meet Fate and the Count of Incke, and all the 
hurried stress of mental and physical tumult that 
befell thereafter, the depths of Gisela’s eyes were 
clouded with awe, as if she felt that she was looking 
into the living soul of a man. And if that soul was 
a puny thing, bloodless, and underfed, what matter ? 
It stirred and cried; and the mother impulse of 
woman must needs respond to such a call ; whether 
it come from the lips of a little child, or from the 
humbled spirit of the man who loves her. 

Dr. Noden sponged and strapped and bandaged, 
flinging instructions between Bothfield’s words oc- 
casionally, and nodding approval at the quick re- 
sponse of his assistant. He stopped midway once, 
and inspected Goldberg; returned and went on with 
his work. 

The hubbub above-stairs was dead now ; there was 
only an occasional foot-fall or the drone of a voice 
in authority, or what sounded like the regular, re- 
curring tramp of a sentry. The storm had passed, 
that was certain, and events had marched. 

Bothfield’s story ended with the account of his 
unavailing despair over the wounded Goldberg. 
The object of his distress lay now with closed eyes 


248 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


at his feet, a maimed and wounded lump of human- 
ity indeed, but still breathing and alive, and (as the 
doctor said) likely to do well enough. 

“ That is all I have to tell,” he finished. “ You 
see, Fraulein, how a man may have good intentions, 
and yet be a fool and a failure. It is so with me.” 

Gisela said nothing, because her eyes were so full 
of expostulation that speech seemed superfluous. 

Dr. Noden stood upright, moved back, and, with 
critical gaze, surveyed his completed handiwork. 
There, upon the chair at the door of the council 
chamber, sat Mr. Bothfield, whom the Consul and 
the Times might have laid cosily in cotton wool; an 
object swathed in improvised bandages, garlanded 
in strips of handkerchiefs, like a first aid diagram. 
Goldberg, with somebody’s coat underneath him, 
was propped against a wall hard by, breathing heav- 
iliy. The doctor, still nodding approval, allowed 
himself a moment’s respite from professional mat- 
ters, and took advantage of it to make comments 
upon Bothfield’s monologue. 

“ Seems to me a creditable kind of failure,” he 
said. “ Quixotic, yes ; but if your scheme had not 
succeeded in getting Fraulein von Radenstein out 
of the inn for half-a-dozen hours, it’s likely she 
would have been held as hostage for the Reformers, 


CLEAR SHINING AFTER RAIN 


249 


and that would have been a bad, dangerous business. 
And we know the Count Gottfried, and can measure 
the risks you ran. So I name it a big success.” 

“ And I,” said Gisela fervently. 

“ Then why is she here ? ” Bothfield said, with 
impatience. 

“ Lord ! ” cried Noden. “ There’s a piece of 
Amalian history contained in that answer. The 
Fraulein will reply to it, no doubt. For me, I must 
get my other patient into God’s fresh air. Now, 
Fraulein von Radenstein, I am going to carry this 
fellow away up the passage, by what we may fairly 
call your private door. Meanwhile, I order that 
patient number two shall sit restfully in his present 
location, to gather up his strength and let that draft 
of brandy stimulate his nerves. Shall I leave you in 
charge till I come back? ” 

“ Don’t jeopardize her, doctor, I can walk,” inter- 
posed Bothfield. 

“ Pooh ! ” the doctor said; “ you don’t know what 
has happened. There, Fm going. Tell him all 
about it, Fraulein; it is good news, and it will keep 
him quiet.” 

He gathered Goldberg in his arms, and as he did 
so, a gleam shot up in the young man’s face, which 
had, until that moment, expressed no interest or 


250 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


participation in what was happening about him. 
Bothfield leaned forward eagerly in his chair at the 
sight, and collapsed again with a wince and a gri- 
mace. Goldberg directed his gaze at him, dangled 
a wrist in an attempt to wave his hand, and 
croaked — 

What a fight ! Eh, Englishman ? 

Prut ; hold your tongue ! ’’ 

The doctor crawled away with him, putting out 
the strongest exercise of muscle to carry him in 
ease, and succeeding so well that his burden scarcely 
groaned. The darkness engulfed him, and Both- 
field and Gisela were alone. 

What is it then? Bothfield said feebly. It’s 
true enough; I don’t know what has happened. 
Safety — here? And the letters and your errand, 
what of them? I have rambled on about my own 
doings ; but they must be a small affair compared to 
the events in which you have taken part, Fraulein. 
Yes, yes; I’m in a fog. What has been happening 
in your world outside ? I have spent a long time in 
the dark : tell me about the day.” 

It was your good action, then, that made the 
Count send me to Herr Jacob Goldberg’s! ” Gisela 
said, without notice for a moment of his petition. 
'' It was through your peril and your sacrifice — here, 


CLEAR SHINING AFTER RAIN 


251 


in this dreadful spot — that my dear father was 
placed in comfort. I didn't understand, I was 
afraid; it was so unlike the Count. . . . Ah! the 
father is in ease and security once more, and we 
have you to thank. Never speak to me again of 
failure ; I only shudder at the risks you ran. And all 
for us ! . . . But I knew that you would . . . well, 
I knew ... of course; and so I told the Prince." 

‘‘The Prince?" 

Bothfield was dazed. He was afraid to consider 
her gratitude, and he thrust it aside, with an intent 
that, come what might, he would not permit himself 
the unearned luxury of exultation. 

“ I took the letters to Herr Wertheimer— that's 
the Chief of Police — you see," said Gisela, in ex- 
planation. She left the incident of Herr Braun 
alone. “ And the Prince was there, full of news 
that the Count had crossed the frontier. It was all 
a lie, a shameful lie, that my father was under inter- 
dict as a traitor. I have the Prince's word for 
that. ... But of course, you know it too, for you 
heard it from Count Gottfried's lips." 

“ Yes. That is why I struck him. That, and 
other things," said Bothfield. 

“ It was a madness that should not have been," 
Gisela said, with contradictory eyes. “ Ach, you 


252 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


may say what you please, but you were brave. . . . 
Well, and so it was arranged that the police should 
surround the inn, with the help of Herr Holseg and 
Captain Cossebaude, who were to be restored to 
office because they knew best how to attack. And 
the Prince graciously allowed me to come back by 
the little blind alley through which I escaped, that 
I might get my father away before the fighting and 
the danger came.’’ 

Bothfield frowned. 

'‘What else could I do? It was little enough,” 
said Gisela, answering him with a quick, pretty 
gesture that put his disapproval to one side. " But 
there was so much uproar among the Reformers, 
and so many black looks and suspicions were directed 
upon us, that had it not been for what I know now 
as your heroism (oh yes, heroism!), I think we had 
hardly escaped. The Count was very smooth and 
eager, and exerted himself arduously to remove us — 
I tell you, Herr Bothfield, it bewildered me. I 
could not think what the meaning of it all might be, 
and I was dreadfully anxious for you, of whom no- 
body would give me news. I did not believe the 
Count in what he said, I knew too well the worth of 
his soft sayings; but the fact was there that my 
father was once more free. . . . And it was none 


CLEAR SHINING AFTER RAIN 


253 


too soon. He needed peace, and the Reformers 
were all wild and menacing, and they frightened 
him. . . . Herr Jacob Goldberg, now, is a very 
kind old man.” 

“ So Herr von Radenstein is at his house? ” 

“ Yes ; Herr Anton Goldberg drove us both there. 
You say he is not so bad, Herr Anton: well, I think 
so too. I hope he will not be punished for siding 
with the Count.” 

“ He has had some punishment already,” Both- 
field said. “ Perhaps that will be allowed to score 
on his side. Go on, Fraulein.” 

“ I could not rest in the strange house, because 
I was afraid, and troubled. So I ran away again 
— you see, I am always running away — and went 
back to Herr Wertheimer. There I found that 
the police were starting upon their work, which 
was to surround the inn, to disarm the Reformers, 
and to take the Count alive. Herr Holseg and Cap- 
tain Cossebaude were leading them. I told Herr 
Wertheimer that there was trouble between the 
Count and the Reformers, and then I found that not 
even Herr Holseg knew of my cellar- flap, that opens 
so beautifully into the Lieschen’s sculleries.” 

“ The cowards did not let you lead them through 
it?” 


254 


,THE WHIRLIGIG 


“ No, no. But I had to go with them to the 
Gasse, to show them the outside of it; it is such a 
simple-looking way that it can’t be explained except 
you see it. Oh, I was right enough. I made Herr 
Holseg promise that he would come to fetch me, 
when all was quiet, if he did not find you, because 
I knew something of the inn, and I could help. But 
only when all was quiet, Herr Bothfield. They left 
me in a neighbouring house, quite safe, with the 
Prince and Dr. Noden, and the Prince’s guard. Ah, 
how the Prince chafed and strode about the room, 
waiting to hear that they had captured the Count ! ” 

“ And then?” 

“ There was a dreadful fight, for the Reformers 
tried to escape, and every way they tried to escape 
there were policemen, particularly my way. They 
fought desperately, but they were overcome at last, 
after a long, terrible struggle. They are to be tried 
for conspiring against the Prince, and then they will 
be imprisoned, and that will be the end of them. So 
Dr. Noden said. And at last Herr Wertheimer and 
Herr Holseg and Captain Cossebaude came back, to 
tell the Prince that the Reformers were their 
prisoners, and that they had found the Count Gott- 
fried ” 

“Not fighting with the rest,” put in Bothfield. 


CLEAR SHINING AFTER RAIN 


255 


He had a vivid recollection of the Count’s appear- 
ance at the cell while the tumult above was at its 
height. 

“ Ah, you knew that ? He betrayed them : he left 
them to fight, and ran to save himself. But he was 
found, and captured, and when the Reformers knew 
how he had left them, they tried, handcuffed though 
they were, to get at him and kill him. Herr Wert- 
heimer came back to the Prince and told him all 
that had happened, and so I knew it too. Then the 
Prince went out with his guard, very grim, very 
silent, with a dreadful look upon his face, and after 
that Herr Holseg came and fetched me as he prom- 
ised, and we searched through the cellars and so 
found you. We feared all things for you; I cannot 
say how glad we were to see you. I could not have 
borne it if you had suffered any longer for us. . . . 
And now that I know all that you have done and 
undergone — all, all, what shall I do to find the 
means to thank you ? ” 

She knew his weaknesses and she forgot them. 
She had seen him by the light of his own conscience 
— a lantern that had flung its beams into corners 
complacently curtained, three days since — and she 
was not dismayed. She had surpassed his endeav- 
ours by her own ; she had far overmatched his new 


256 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


found selflessness by hers ; and yet she had pity for 
him, and trust, and wondering admiration. The 
amazing blindness of woman! Or was it rather, 
the amazing vision ? 

Bothfield sat silent for a little. He had walked 
among impossibilities, and found them real, and his 
experiences had upheaved ancient landmarks. Three 
days ago he had been a frog; now he was a more 
highly-developed organization that had spilled blood 
and suffered fear and hunger, and been jostled by 
the crude brute instincts of mankind. All these 
things worked to an end; illogically, fantastically as 
it seemed, the conclusion they helped him to draw 
was that grey eyes and wistfully curved lips and 
slender hands could intoxicate a man beyond all 
reason. He looked at Gisela, and bodily fatigue 
became blotted out, swept aside, with common-sense 
and prudence, by the dancing of his pulses. The 
gloomy passage and the shadowed scene were 
chalked upon his mind by the abnormal quickening 
of perceptions. Here was the fruit of his adventure, 
and lo ! it was a woman, set in the midst of the night 
like a rare jewel in a brooch. Something shouted 
at him that he must speak to her, thrust himself upon 
her, batter, brutally, if need be, at her. 

He leaned forward. 


CLEAR SHINING AFTER RAIN 


257 


“Thank me?” he said, and his voice blundered 
over the words. “ Not thanks, Fraulein. Thanks 
are too little, or too much. I don’t want gratitude ; 
because I have no right to it. I want something 
I have infinitely less right to take. I want that 
which I could not deserve by a lifetime’s service. Do 
you understand? ” 

Gisela quivered. The eyes fixed on her face 
wavered, and a sudden answering light blazed up 
in them, to vanish again, fearful. 

He caught her hand. 

“ I love you. Do you know what that means, 
Fraulein? It means that it does not matter that I 
have scarcely seen you twice; it means that it does 
not even matter that I am a barbarian, and you an 
angel. All that matters now is that I want you to 
guide me, that I must have your life to set a seal on 
mine. And with that and beyond it, it means that 
if there is hope — and I insist there shall be — I want 
proof and signal of it — now.” 

Alas for Dr. Noden’s nurse and patient ! It was 
well indeed for them that they had found a better 
cure for a sick man than was conceived in all the 
knowledge of the craft. Rest, at that moment, was 
the last thing Bothfield was conscious of requiring. 
He raised himself from the chair with both his 


2S8 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


hands, and this time he did not even wince. Gisela, 
however, had a memory. She pushed him back 
softly to his seat and stooped over, looking down 
into his face that she might keep him there. 

Don't stir. You mustn’t stir,” she said. 

You must give me what I ask if you would have 
me obey,” Bothfield said. 

He put a hand up to her face. She slid her cheek 
down the palm as he lifted it, and touched him with 
her lips. Then she started back breathless, and 
covered her face. 

Herr Je! ” she whispered. 

‘‘You’ll marry me then, Gisela? You’ll marry 
me ? ” Bothfield said, breathless too, but wholly 
exultant. 

He caught her dress as she shrank back, and kissed 
it. At that moment of his life’s flowering he 
vibrated into a response to undefinable things; the 
hem of her garment, even, was a conductor for the 
wordless message that leapt between them. He 
could not have told how he knew it, but he knew 
he had reached her heart. It was absolutely in- 
credible, it could not be measured by the slow and 
orderly growth of the other processes of life. But 
it was vividly and certainly true that her recoil, no 
less than her advance, betokened her surrender. 


CLEAR SHINING AFTER RAIN 


259 


If it is audacity, it is forced upon me by a power 
outside myself,’’ he said, and clasped her hand in 
his again. Why, we were made for each other, 
you and I. That is the blessed good that is to come 
from all this turmoil. I loved you when I saw you 
first, and that was only the flash of an eye at a half- 
closed window. Gisela! There, now I have the 
beautiful name quite pat upon my tongue. Gisela ! 
You have to be mine, my dear, because you cannot 
help it. Look at me now, and smile, and tell me 
that it is so.” 

Gisela was still dumb, and he saw her eyes were 
shining, looking anywhere but at his eager gaze. 
There were tears standing in them, and she was 
shaking at his words. He drew her gently down 
towards him, till her hair touched his. Then he 
felt her breath warm upon his cheek, and her face 
stooped down — down, and found a hiding-place 
above the bandages. 

I don’t deserve it though,” he said, and this time 
his voice was tremulous. '' Good heavens, how 
could any man deserve such happiness? But I be- 
lieve that it is true. Gisela, to make sure, whisper 
to me that it is true.” 

And . true,” echoed a muffled voice. 

There was a long pause. The compact was left 


26 o 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


at that, untouched by speech where no speech was 
needed. Then the door opened above, and lights, 
voices, and people poured upon them. 

Dr. Noden bustled down, an orderly clattering 
after him with a lifted lantern. 

Gott sei Dank! he said, as his face peered into 
Bothfield’s, and found him sitting upright in the 
chair, alert and un weakened, with Gisela in the half 
light behind him. ‘‘ There was an urgent case up 
above — a man with the best part of a sword inside 
him — and I had to get him and your Goldberg into 
the hospital waggon. Other things too — but there, 
they must do their own telling. Now, let me shift 
you a few yards. The Prince is on the premises, 
and he has ordered the prisoners to be mustered in 
the council chamber here at once. We must make 
way for his Highness.’’ 

He put his arm round the Englishman and lifted 
him. Gisela, who had fled out of sight in the rear 
of the chair, moved it against the inner wall of the 
room ; Bothfield felt her behind him. The shadows 
began to scud before an incursion of lantern-bearing 
policemen; somebody looked into the cell as he 
passed by, and he clanged the heavy door upon its 
emptiness. Bothfield looked round him vaguely, 
and noticed that the rat had left a crumb or two 


CLEAR SHINING AFTER RAIN 26 1 

after all; a policeman’s boot crushed them on the 
flags. The rugged wall, through whose chink he 
had played Peeping Tom, showed duskily; trained 
and curious observers were examining it, the floor, 
the window. 

Dr. Noden, too, stared about the room. 

So this was where Incke and his rascals hatched 
their mischief!” he said. Well, it is ordained 
that the Reformers will have one more meeting here 
by the Prince’s command. Our fellows have smoked 

them out of their wasps’ nest at last. Incke ” 

He broke off, and raised his finger. The stamp 
and shuffle of men was surging in the passage. 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE PRINCE 

Glimmering lanterns lit the long room with a 
veiled and smoky radiance: the bearers hung them 
on the walls or stood them on the table. The effect 
was that of a cross fire of light, low and yet 
dazzling, in which men loomed large and sharp- 
shadowed, and in which the glint of sword-blades 
or the blue suggestion of revolvers started in and 
out of the field of vision. Bothfield was weak, and 
he had much to remember in the nearness of Gisela, 
but he observed that there was something in the 
manner of the last arrivals that told of more unusual 
events than a police raid and its hurly-burly. 

The body of incomers split, before his eyes, into 
fragments. He saw a dark hedge of policemen fall 
asunder, and in the midst of it, handcuffed, cowed, 
and huddled together, was disclosed to him the 
remnant of the Reformers. The captors drove it 
into a far end of the room, as dogs drive a flock of 
sheep, and, as it passed, sullen, baffled faces grew 
to recognition and faded again among the shadows. 
Brother Karl, white to the lips; Fingelmann with 


262 


THE PRINCE 


263 


the thief’s shifty eyes; Haering marked, like Cain, 
with blood upon his brow ; — they were still a 
brotherhood, but brothers only in misfortune and 
despair. Their house of cards had been scattered. 
It had tumbled about their ears, and their faces 
told with what apprehensions they viewed its de- 
struction. Bothfield could not pity them, he re- 
membered too well the froth of anarchy that had 
been upon their lips. But they were hunted and 
hopeless men. He — ^perhaps, if the secrets of hearts 
could be w’^eighed, no more deserving — was a happy 
one, and the sharpness of the contrast made him 
lean back in his chair, that he might hug the thought 
of Gisela’s proximity. These men, too, had been 
outwardly brave when the crisis came; had fought 
like cornered rats. Had he done so much more, to 
deserve a love-crowned victory in place of sheer 
defeat ? 

Gisela’s voice hummed in his ears. 

'' Poor souls ! Poor souls ! Beloved, will it be 
death for them ? ” 

Oh, no, no ! ” Bothfield said, reassuringly. 

They have had a measure of punishment already, 
which will no doubt be remembered in their favour. 
But it is a shocking affair. After all, seen from a 
distance and the easy depths of a library chair, they 


264 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


may be Mazzinis, Kossuths, Washingtons every one. 
Something heroic could have been shaped out of 
their villanies, no doubt, had the Prince been more 
of a tyrant, and Incke less of a knave.” 

‘^No; they and their surroundings are all ugly 
and terrible ; they could never have been more than 
coarse, bitter, misguided men,” Gisela said, with 
a shudder of retrospection. Remember Kurt ; 
indeed, I shall never forget him. Ah no : people, 
when they hear all the story, or look back upon it 
from the future, will applaud you for your nobility, 
as I love you for it now; but they will see nothing 
in these others but a very dreadful background to 
your good actions.” 

Bothfield stopped her. He put out his hand and 
drew hers into it, and now he spoke gravely, with 
deep earnestness, and a painful searching for words 
in which to clothe a difficult truth. 

‘^Gisela! You must listen very carefully to me 
now, and bear in mind so that it may remain with 
you always, what I am about to say. My dear, I 
am simply no hero at all. If you put me upon such 
a crazy pinnacle, I shall undoubtedly fall headlong. 
Three days ago I was a selfish, cowardly egotist, 
without a notion of anything better in this world 
than to stare, and guzzle, and very often yawn. 


THE PRINCE 


265 


Then I stumbled, by grace, across your path, and 
had my blood warmed by you, — my woman, and 
God’s gift. That you have worked wonders I do 
not controvert; my amazing activities stagger me 
still. But I went through it not because I liked the 
game, but because I was driven by the lash of Fate, 
and even then with a plague of terror and cold 
sweats, which perpetually handicapped my poor 
little spirit.- I fought because I could not in decency 
run away; next time (if I were so foolish as to let 
a next time be) I have conviction that I should 
send decency to the winds and take a spitting 
very badly. I shiver now at the bare recollection 
of my adventures. I shall have a mental neuralgia 
for months to come, to teach me, assuming that I 
have not well learned my lesson, how vast a shock 
my system has received. Fight? Let me never see 
a sword raised in anger again. Hero? I blenched 
and shook at every turn.” 

“ But you were successful ! ” 

“ Who would not be, with love — first love, ma- 
ture, undreamed-of love, animating him? I have 
never heard that great virtue is attributed to the 
needle for clinging to a magnet. There is this to 
be thankful for, and you must join with me, Lieb- 
chen, in giving praise for the mercy, — that I have 


266 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


a little wit with which to see my limitations. The 
world has enough of heroes, one cannot look upon 
a printed sheet without being dazzled by some rec- 
ord of gallantry, in fact or fiction. ... It must 
be very tedious to have limitless bravery at one’s 

comm But no, that’s heresy. I am very faulty, 

very commonplace, very stupid : if you will not rec- 
ognize these things you must let me go, and break 
my heart and yours. That is reason.” 

And pray, what has a woman to do with rea- 
son?” Gisela said scornfully. She kissed the top 
of his head surreptitiously, with scared glances to 
left and right. But then to be untruthful — I be- 
lieve you. Now, does that please you? ” 

Of course it does not; but at least you under- 
stand me.” 

I understand that you shall never again risk 
your dear life for me or any one else: I under- 
stand that you are weak and wounded, and that 
you want peace. For the rest, you will always be 
my hero, always my beloved. That you held out 
manfully against your own tremors and the outside 
peril is a doubly gallant action, to me.” 

So? ” Bothfield shook his head sadly. The 
incentive was all-powerful, but the man, though 
he ’scaped whipping, was a poor, crazy- jointed. 


THE PRINCE 


267 


wincing fellow, and will so remain to the end of 
the chapter. I know my limit; yes, yes, I know it, 
and though, please God, I shall be a better creature 
for your sake, I shall never again be even an indif- 
ferent fighting man. ... I have won you ; there's 
the why and the wherefore. . . . Goldberg's is a 
sturdy heathenism to be envied, but his tough virtue 
is not mine, and well for me, indeed, that I am not 
to be further tested. Let me make a home for you 
to keep you there. Let me spend the rest of a wasted 
life in learning, in quiet byways, how to help my 
fellow-humans, seeing that kind Providence has 
been so bountiful to me. Come away with me, 
sweetheart, to find some humdrum, plain corner 
where morality grows like a cabbage, and it is suffi- 
cient to be respectable." 

“ Come with us — to Radenstein ! " Gisela whis- 
pered, her breath warm upon his cheek. 

Ah, where you have lived ! There, if anywhere, 
I should find the best of me dragged to light. But 
it's a poor, halting best; remember that I warned 
you of that, dear love, when the long days of mar- 
riage show me in all my crass stolidity." 

Again the fragrant, protesting breath. But this 
time its speech died away unsaid, and the lovers 
started apart, brought back to their surroundings 


268 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


with a shock. Holseg and Cossebaude were clank- 
ing in the room. They advanced in consultation, 
and then the Captain, snapping a salute at Gisela, 
stepped to Bothfield and held out an awkward hand. 
He looked ill at ease, but the action was conciliatory. 
The men shook hands, and Holseg was upon them 
while their fingers touched. 

'' Cossebaude is about to offer our apologies and 
our congratulations, no doubt,” he said. Apolo- 
gies, because it is plain you have suffered in this 
business, and it is our affair to defend you. I am 
thankful to hear that your injuries are not serious. 
Though you will permit me to say that, while I 
deplore the scheme into which we dragged you, 
your subsequent appearance here does not seem to 
us to have a true connection with it.” 

The trite little speech gave the couple time to 
stumble safely back into an unsympathetic world. 
Gisela drew again into the shade of the chair, and 
Bothfield looked up, and answered — 

‘‘You are right; it has not,” he said. ''Your 
opportune descent upon the inn was, from my stand- 
point, far more protection than I had earned. My 
presence here is only indirectly due to your plot, 
Herr Holseg; there are other causes, into which I 
do not feel inclined to enter.” 


THE PRINCE 


269 


“ Oh, Dr. Noden has told us something of your 
story, and Fraulein von Radenstein has let us know- 
how you have helped her, too. Regarding Kurt s 
death, we have nothing but thanks to offer to you 
for ridding the earth of a pestilent rascal in time 
to lighten our task to-night. You were indiscreet, 
that is quite plain ; but it was a gallant indiscretion, 
and you must let me also shake hands upon it. There 
is the right stuff in you; but another time you would 
be well advised to steer clear of Amalian back- 
waters. Their exploration does not always end 
well for the adventurer.” 

Bothfield glanced at the penned Reformers, and 
thought he understood the reference. Again his 
heart went out to Gisela, and it leapt as he felt a 
soft touch upon his arm respond to the impulse. 

“ Ay,” he said. “ I think this will be the end of 
my perilous voyaging; thenceforth I hope for tran- 
quil navigation.” 

Holseg hesitated a little over his next words. 

“ Perhaps, seeing that we came in the nick of 
time to save you from a danger into which you 
admit you plunged yourself, you will not have too 
good a memory of what went before,” he said. 

“ Oh ! ” Bothfield smiled, somewhat grimly. “ I 
had revenges piled mountains high not long ago. 


270 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


I was going to seek the Consul’s protection first, 
and then I was going to write to the Times, It is 
a terrible thing, gentlemen, to be gibbeted in the 
Times, I should have been quite content to see the 
two powers revenge my wrongs while I nestled 
snug in their protection. But, somehow, things 
have changed since then.” 

They certainly have,” Cossebaude blurted out ; 
you have a record that will be remembered in 
Amaro, Englishman. To beard Incke in his den, 
to crack Kurt’s skull, and floor Goldberg, our keen- 
est swordsman ! You did not seem at all this kind 
of a fellow when — well, not long ago.” 

No-o ! ” Bothfield smiled faintly. I was not 
this kind of fellow. . . . By the light of altered 
circumstance, I can see that my memory is no bet- 
ter, Herr Holseg, than it should be.” 

That is good,” Holseg nodded. We worked 
for his Highness, and Fate took the reins out of our 
hands. But if things had gone wrong — Ah, there 
is Wertheimer! ” 

He made a step forward, as if he would draw 
attention to the Englishman, and then he stiffened, 
and kept his place. Wertheimer had faced to the 
door, and was bowing and backing before the last 


comers. 


THE PRINCE 


271 


Prince Ferdinand of Amalia stood in the door- 
way, looking to right and left with looks that did 
not lose sight either of his saluting servants or of 
the prisoners. He was pale, and his dress seemed 
a little disordered ; his hair was tossed, and his coat 
was flung carelessly upon him. But he had the 
mien of a victor, and he held his head high, while 
a flickering, triumphant smile played about the 
corners of his mouth. 

It died into sternness, and he advanced into the 
room, with a piercing eye upon the rebels. 

Behind him, shadowed by the tall figure and the 
majestic presence, a fox-like face, its inscrutability 
disturbed by some recent agitation, hovered dimly. 
Bothfield comprehended, not without brain-search- 
ing, that he was looking upon the reappearance of 
Count Merkewitz. The incident did not strike hard 
upon a mind already cloyed with dramatic disclo- 
sures, and he focussed his eyes quickly again upon 
the Prince. He saw the latter take in the room, 
and start at the sight of Gisela. She swept a 
courtsey, and he strode to where she stood. 

I had forgotten your presence here, though not 
all for which I have to thank you,’’ he said. “ Frau- 
lein Gisela, you are a worthy daughter of your 
house. You have amply fulfilled the traditions of 


272 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


the Radenstein blood, and I repeat my thanks, with 
my whole heart, for the service which you rendered 
me to-day.” 

“ Your Highness ” Gisela had no words in 

which to answer him. 

“ Little one,” the Prince said, and he was once 
more fatherly and gentle, “ I am grateful to you ; 
I know my Princess will have gratitude also to ex- 
press. It gives me the greatest joy to know that 
the troubles which a villain’s wickedness brought 
upon you and your father have been removed. We 
shall hope to hear of your uninterrupted and peace- 
ful enjoyment of your home once more, and to be 
reminded of our faithful friends when you come 
sometimes to Amaro. I had word just now from 
your father’s host by my orderly; Herr von Raden- 
stein is in excellent health, all things considered. 
And now there is other business to be gone through 
here; let me give you an arm, and lead you back 
to my carriage, which will take you out of this 
kennel.” 

He stood aside, as if to let her advance. Gisela 
hesitated, blushed, and gave a confused downward 
glance at Bothfield. He opened his mouth to speak; 
but the Prince bent an interrogatory glance at the 
couple, and smiled. 


THE PRINCE 


273 


“ Ah ! ” he said. “ I seem to see that a pleasing 
complication has sprung from our dismal affairs. 
Am I not right, Fraulein? I have an intuition in 
these matters, since the days that I first learned 
the blessedness of the true romance in life. It is 
so? Yes; you see I did not have to be told. And 
who, then, is this gentleman ? ” 

“ I owe a very great deal to him,” Gisela faltered, 
putting her hand boldly upon Bothfield’s, neverthe- 
less. “ But for him I should not have been allowed 
to leave the inn ; he risked his life, sire, that I might 
go. This is Herr Francis Bothfield, an English- 
man, * and — and — and — your Highness spoke the 
true word ... we are betrothed.” 

“Bothfield! To be sure, it is my decoy; I did 
not recognize him in his bandages. It is a strange 
chance that we who met in the pine-forest should 
be reunited here ! — eh, sir ? ” 

Holseg and Cossebaude looked all ways, with the 
faces of whipped hounds. Gisela flashed out at the 
disparagement of his tone and lost her shyness. 

“ Mr. Bothfield put his life into Count Gott- 
fried’s hands that he might save us when the Re- 
formers would have kept us back; he killed Brother 
Kurt when he had so shamefully misused my 
father; he fought with Herr Goldberg; he has gone 


274 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


through a great amount of suffering because he 
was too brave to think of himself. Your Highness 
knows how he came at the first, and how we found 
the letters. It is to this gentleman that thanks 
should go, not, I beg of your Highness, to me, for 
I did nothing.’' 

Oh no, no ! " Bothfield burst out. God bless 
my soul, I made a mess of everything I touched. 
Thanks to me ! Your Highness must not be misled 
by such a statement. I have been extraordinarily 
fortunate, for I have gained this lady’s hand, as 
she says, but otherwise ! ” 

Well, well ! ” the Prince said, and he looked 
quizzically from one to the other. This is alto- 
gether a remarkable circumstance, in more ways 
than one; for my part, I never yet met anybody 
who disclaimed a Prince’s gratitude. The indigna- 
tion you display is refreshing. It convinces me, 
seeing that it is on each other’s behalf, that you are 
likely to be a profoundly happy couple.” 

Your Highness will allow me to say, and Cap- 
tain Cossebaude and Dr. Noden will bear out my 
statement, that Mr. Bothfield has displayed much 
courage and resolution,” Holseg put in. 

'' I am very glad to hear it, and I must be told 
more by and by of his action,” the Prince said gra- 


THE PRINCE 


275 


ciously. “ Meanwhile he will probably agree with 
me that his qualities must be of remarkable excel- 
lence to have earned the favour of this dear young 
lady.” 

“ No, sire ; I am entirely unworthy,” Bothfield 
protested. 

Gisela’s hand closed upon his in indignation. She 
was about to challenge his statement, when Ferdi- 
nand anticipated her speech with a smiling, depre- 
cating gesture. 

“There, my dear Fraulein Gisela! You shall 
tell us how your lover mistakes himself presently. 
I can see by his face that, while he repudiates any 
suggestion of merit, he knows the thanks that he 
must give to those eyes of yours, for seeing him as 
he hopes to be. Is that not the way to put it, Mr. 
Bothfield? So — I am right again. It is much to 
have experience in these things, and it is good to 
see that you bear yourself with a proper humility. 
Be satisfied, sir; there is a door in heaven open for 
every man who finds a faithful counsellor and a 
true friend at his hearth. You have been through 
many dangers and trials : there are men who would 
be glad to endure them, if by so doing they could 
gain an ardent champion as well as a wife. This 
is the pith of life that you have found ; it is for you 


2^6 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


now to learn how a good woman can give the best 
of herself to cherish your hopes and your pleasures ; 
how she will steady you to look into the eye of the 
future with calmness, as well as to enjoy a blessed 
present. Take one more word from me — the life 
that this noble-hearted girl entrusts to you is a 
sacred thing; she places it unreservedly in your 
hands. Your contact with it will be for salvation, 
if you do but remember that a wife must be honoured 
as well as loved.'' 

He held out his hand in congratulation, and 
Bothfield bowed dizzily above it, the words ringing 
home to his heart. Gisela breathed hurriedly be- 
side him. Her emotions had started the tears in her 
eyes: the Prince's counsels seemed to warn her of 
the ^solemnity of the bond that had been forged in 
hasty tumult and darkness. There were palpitating 
hopes and quick yearnings within her, and there 
was fear with them ; but a rosy, exulting trust in the 
man who had chosen her dominated her spirit above 
all lesser things. She did not waver, or look back; 
only her cheeks were wet as she drew again behind 
the chair, in an unconscious suggestion of self- 
abnegation and surrender. 

Merkewitz coughed softly at the Prince's elbow. 
A pair of lovers had thrust themselves into the 


THE PRINCE 


277 


middle of grave matters, and had whirled the head- 
strong Ferdinand off at a tangent. His patronage 
did credit to his heart, but Merkewitz and the ring 
of policemen had claims to freedom from a situa- 
tion which could only be absurd and tedious to the 
official mind. Merkewitz’s cough expressed all 
this, and more; the cold rigidity of Holseg and 
Wertheimer, and the blank wall of Captain Cosse- 
baude’s expression made the same expostulation, 
with variations. It was probable that the Prince, 
whose gaze was turned to the fortunate couple with 
an expression both interested and tender, would have 
strained his prerogatives still further to neglect the 
nudges of duty, but that a grim and unlooked-for 
interruption broke upon his abstraction. 

An ejaculation from one of the prisoners rang 
from the end of the room. It was followed by a 
stir among his fellows, as they craned to see, and 
by an interval of stupefaction on the part of Both- 
field. The Prince wheeled about, and Gisela's view 
of the dark entry was laid bare. Bothfield came 
to himself with his effort to shield her from the 
sight. She clutched his hand and held it close, 
frozen into immobility by the thrusting of this ill- 
timed spectacle upon them. It was clear now why 
the Prince had tried, before subsequent events had 


2/8 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


led him astray from his intention, to get her clear 
of the room and the building. 

They had been the centre of interest a moment 
before; they were dropped into neglect now by the 
spinning of the wheel, and the backs that turned 
upon them expressed a sudden forgetfulness, not 
only of their fortunes, but of their existence. 

The doorway was choked, and was cleared again. 
When it was free, the lanterns revealed a stretcher 
laid within the room, upon which the four bearers, 
as they stepped back with their eyes towards the 
Prince, disclosed the stark form and the dead face 
of the Count Gottfried von Incke. 

Lieher Gott!” Wertheimer said, and he sprang 
out with a gesture of consternation and forbid- 
dance. What do you mean by bringing him 
here?’^ 

It was his Highness’ order,” said a spokesman, 
and still turned his eyes, dog-like, to watch for 
Ferdinand’s. 

Bothfield felt Gisela cling to him, and he put his 
arm about her and drew her into his protection. 
Yet, after all, the object from which he sought to 
withdraw her was sinister only in appearance; in 
reality it was quite inert and impotent, estranged 
for ever from the power that it had coveted and 


THE PRINCE 


279 


abused. This was only a dead man; surely the 
most convincingly harmless thing in a mortal world. 

Nevertheless, they looked at him in awe. Gott- 
fried von Incke lay upon his stretcher and con- 
fronted them with his double frown smoothed into 
a mere wrinkle; with his mouth relaxing from its 
last desperate indrawing of breath; with his eyes 
veiled. The hand that had sought Bothfield’s life 
trailed helpless upon the floor; the masterful fea- 
tures were wiped as clean of all expression as a 
child’s slate. He faced a roomful of enemies; and 
he showed to them a profound indifference which 
in life he might have struggled vainly after. The 
dignity of death folded him as in a mantle ; and his 
boundless ambitions, his hatreds, and his crooked 
love, were buried for ever below that winding- 
sheet. 

Ferdinand passed his hand over his forehead, 
and stared at the speaker. 

“ A-ah ! ” he said. “ How was it that I was able 
to forget? Yes; I told them to come, Wertheimer; 
it is the last act of the drama, and it must be played 
out. Stand back, my children.” 

He stepped out to the bier, and the action isolated 
him from the living in the room, and seemed to 
place him and the dead man together and apart. 


28 o 


,THE WHIRLIGIG 


The policemen drew themselves aside; the little 
knot of officials who had intrigued and fought for 
him swayed helpless. The streaking, glinting lan- 
tern glare played about the chamber, and the faces 
of the Reformers stared out of its uncertain light, 
brought by their pallor into significance. Bothfield 
and Gisela were spectators, a world removed from 
the thoughts of those who had lately thronged 
about them, and yet throbbing with the same emo- 
tion that was to be read, like an open book, on the 
faces of the others. 

The Prince stood beside the Count, and looked 
down upon his rigid features. He appeared to lift 
the baffling mask that death had fastened upon the 
face; to search anxiously for something that was 
not to be found. If he were looking for some tat- 
tered remnant of virtue, left from the far-off days 
when they had been playmates, and overlooked in 
the heat and stress of active enmity, he must have 
been disappointed. The freezing, waxen smile 
cried innocence no more than it spelled wickedness ; 
it remained blankly inexpressive, an insoluble 
enigma. The only impression it could possibly con- 
vey to the minds of the men who gazed upon it was 
that some alien finger had inscribed there the old 
mocking lesson of the preacher,, Vanitas vanitate; 


THE PRINCE 


281 


the text could as well have been taken from the 
neglected corpse of a crossing-sweeper. Life was 
vanquished; surely all ended life was altogether 
vanity. 

Prince Ferdinand turned about, and met the 
haggard looks of the Reformers. He lifted his 
head and looked squarely at them for a minute, 
and then he pointed his finger towards Incke, and 
so addressed them. 

Hear me speak,” he said. This man professed 
to be your leader ; he spent the last half-hour of his 
life in trying to save himself while you were in 
peril. He professed to be in sympathy with you; 
his mind was as incapable of sympathy as it was 
incapable of honour. He went with you into the 
mud of disloyalty, but it was to gratify his per- 
sonal ambitions. You see how he has been punished. 
Yet his treason, when it spent itself against the 
Government of his country, was identical with 
yours; it is only to be said in your behalf that he 
had less excuse for it than you. 

You have had great schemes, no doubt, for the 
reforming of existing customs. Is it for you ” — he 
swept a withering glance round the tatterdemalions 
— to succeed when patient, long-studying men are 
still striving? I have the betterment of my country 


282 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


at heart too, and I could be glad of your help, if 
you chose to show it by hardworking, temperate 
lives, lived in charity instead of enmity with all men. 

“ I killed the Count Gottfried von Incke in duel. 
He had to die; Heaven willed it that I should kill 
him. Thus will I stamp out treason and treachery 
in my Principality, wherever shown. Be warned 
in time. He fought hard for life, but the God 
of Justice stood with me, and I prevailed. You 
will be punished, but my clemency will be extended 
to save you from the full measure that the law would 
mete out to you, because it was Incke who bound 
your idle seditions into one body, and so brought 
you within reach of extreme penalties. It has been 
a narrow escape for you ; and now that you are dis- 
banded and forbidden under pain of death to unite 
again, you will perhaps be able to be thankful, each 
for himself, that conspiracy has been put out of 
your reach, and that you are removed from further 
becoming the tools of unscrupulous men. Be 
warned, I repeat; and remember that I am not a 
peaceful Prince, and that I will fight, to the death 
if necessary, against traitors to my country or my 
honour.” 

He drew a long breath and turned to the rest of 
his audience. 


THE PRINCE 


283 


“ Well, sirs ; you were pleased to think your- 
selves wiser than I, and to arrange that this man 
should escape my justice. I am sensible of your 
good intentions, but it was not to be. I met him an 
hour ago, as you know, in fair fight, and I sent 
my sword into his lying breast, to strike into it, by 
the only means that could send conviction there, 
the knowledge of how deeply he had erred. He 
slandered a lady; she was my Princess. He has 
expiated that crime, with all his others, now. My 
’scutcheon is fair again; and there is a mischief- 
monger less in Amalia. But let me point out to 
you, gentlemen, that there would have been trouble 
saved if he had died, as I intended, two days ago in 
the Palace garden.” 

There was confusion among those whom he ad- 
dressed, but he took no notice of it. He moved 
towards the door, and then, as if obeying an un- 
expected impulse, came back, looked again upon 
the dead man, and left the face covered with his 
own handkerchief. 

“ Thou art avenged, Ottilie ! ... Yet Gottfried, 
Gottfried, — is it not shame to all of us, that men’s 
friendships can come to this?” 

And so ended the adventures of Francis Both- 
field, who went a-riding upon a whirligig, and 


284 


THE WHIRLIGIG 


found it giddy exercise. He makes now the most 
excellent family-man; he sits, a monument of pru- 
dence, upon local committees and charitable boards, 
he subscribes liberally to philanthropic objects, and 
lays down good, sound claret. There is nothing 
meretricious about him ; he is solid,’’ as the Ger- 
mans say, and the epithet undoubtedly applies to 
the region of his waistcoat. He will never retouch 
the heights of sacrifice, but he will never sink again 
to panic fear and bloodshed. Gisela knows it. She 
realises, with the clear seeing of the wife, that her 
yokefellow is but a man with the frailties of flesh 
upon him ; a thing lovable, and to be cherished ; not, 
God forbid! a block of flinty virtue, but her mate, 
and the pivot of her life. Yet a being who has 
suffered, and been scourged by emotion into that 
appreciation without which no man can be truly said 
to live. He and his wife, now that the father has 
gone to a more perfect freedom than the flesh can 
know, reign at Radenstein, where Bothfield admin- 
isters both wisely and well, and where the folk have 
quite forgotten that he was once by way of being 
an Englishman. They keep a hospitable board, and 
the moral cabbage must have grown to the dimen- 
sions of a cedar, if the esteem in which the host’s 
opinions and advice are held can be taken as a 


THE PRINCE 


285 


measuring-rod. They have faithfully regarded the 
great duty of mankind, and they watch tenderly 
over a chubby brood, and find, in the training of 
a nursery, opportunities that may hereafter blossom 
more amply for the good of mankind than all the 
strenuous sallies of- more ambitious people. And I 
must not forget to say that, after some years of 
exile, there has appeared upon the scene a certain 
brevet-uncle Anton, who, remembering a timely 
intercession of his kinswoman and his late oppo- 
nents, repays them by giving a master s attention 
to the sword-play teaching of the youngsters. For 
the rest, I understand that Fingelmann came once 
begging in rags to the back-door, was charitably 
entertained, and departed ungratefully with the 
silver spoons. But otherwise the links with the 
stormy three days are few. Ferdinand, after a 
brief period of extravagant patronage, appears to 
have forgotten them in a fine quarrel with a neigh- 
bouring prince; and they jog along in obscurity, 
as placid a married pair as ever swam to matrimony 
through the deeps of passion. 


THE END 



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STANLEY J. WEYMAN. 

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story of the time of Queen Mary, and is possessed of great dramatic power. ... In char- 
acter-drawing the story is unexcelled, and the reader will follow the remarkable adventures 
of the three fugitives with the most intense interest, which end with the happy change on 
the accession of Elizabeth to the throne.” — Home Journal, Boston. 

The book presents a good historical pen-picture of the most stirring period of English 
civilization, and graphically describes scenes and incidents which undoubtedly happened. 
The style is plain, and the book well worthy of careful perusal. 

“ Humor and pathos are in the pages, and many highly dramatic scenes are described 
with the ability of a master hand.” — Item, Philadelphia. 

“ Is worthy of careful reading ; it is a unique, powerful, and very interesting stoiy, the 
scene of which is laid alternately in England, the Netherlands, and the Rhenish Palatinate ; 
th*- times are those of Bloody Mary. Bishop Gardiner plays a leading part in this romance, 
which presents in good shape the manners and customs of the period.” 

— Buffalo Commercial. 

“ A romance of the olden days, full of fire and life, with touches here and there of love 
and politics. ... We have in this book a genuine romance of Old England, in which 
soldiers, chancellors, dukes, priests, and high-bom dames figure. The time is the period of 
the war with Spain. Knightly deeds abound. The story will more than interest the reader ; 
it will charm him, and he will scan the notices of forthcoming books for another novel by 
We3rman.” — Public Opinion, New York. 

“ Its humor, its^ faithful observance^ of the old English style of writing, and its careful 
adherence to historic events and localities, will recommend it to all who are fond of historic 
novels. The scenes are laid in England and in the Netherlands in the last four years of 
Queen Mary’s life.”— Literary World, Boston. 

“ Is distinguished by an uncommon display of the inventive faculty, a Dumas-like ingenu- 
ity in contriving dangerous situations, and an enviable facility for extricating the persecuted 
hero from the very jaws of des^ction. The scene is laid alternately in En^and, the Neth- 
erlands, and the Rhenish Palatinate ; the times are those of Bloody Mary. Bishop Gardiner 
plays a leading part in this romance, which presents in good shape the manners and customs 
of the period. It is useless dividing the story into arbitrary chapters, for they will not serve 
to prevent the reader from ‘devouring’ the ‘ Story of Francis Cludde,’ from the stormy 
beginning to its peaceful end in the manor-house at Coton End.” 

— Public Ledger, Philadelphia. 

“This is certainly a commendable story, being full of interest and told with great 
spirit. . . . It is a capital book for the young, and even the less hardened nerves of ^ the 

middle-aged will find here no superfluity of gore or brutality to mar their pleasure in a 
bright and clean tale of prowess and adventure.” — Nation, New York. 

“A well-told tale, with few, if any, anachronisms, and a credit to the clever talent of 
Stanley J. We5mian.” — Springfield Republican. 

“ It is undeniably the best volume which Mr. Weyman has given us, both in Kteraiy 
Style and unceasing interest.” — Yale Literary Magazine. 


LOMMANS, GBEEN, & 00., 91-93 FIFTH ATE., HEW TOBIL 


MY LADY ROTHA. 

A ROMANCE OF THE THIRTY YEARS’ WAR. 

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN. 

AUTHOR OF “a gentleman OF FRANCE,” “UNDER THE RED ROBE/’ 
“the house of THE WOLF.** 


With Eight Illustrations. Crown 8vo, $1.25. 


** Few writers of fiction who have appeared in England in the last decade have given 
their readers more satisfaction than Mr. Stanley J. Weyman, and no single writer of this 
number can be said to have approached him, much less to have equaled him in the romantic 
world of the historical novel . . . he has the art of story-telling in the highest degree, 

the art which instinctively divines the secret, the soul of the story which he tells, and the 
rarer art, if it be not the artlessness, which makes it as real and as inevitable as life itself. 
His characters are alive, human, unforgetable, resembling in this respect those of Thackeray 
fn historical lines and in a measure those of Dumas, with whom, and not inaptly, Mr. Wey- 
man has been compared. His literature is good, so good that we accept it as a matter of 
course, as we do that of Thackeray and Scott. • • . Mr. Weyman’s historical novels 
will live.” — New York Mail and Express. 

“ . . . differs signally from Mr. Wey man’s earlier published works. It is treated 
with the minuteness and lovingness of a first story which has grown up in the mind of the 
author for years. . . . Marie Wort is one of the bravest souls that ever moved quietly 

along the pages of a novel. She is so unlike the other feminine characters whom Weyman 
has drawn that the difference is^ striking and adds significance to this one book. . . . 

‘ My Lady Rotha * is full of fascinating interest, all the more remarkable in a work adhering 
so strictly to historical truth.” — Evening Post, Chicago. 

**This last book of his is brirnful of action, rushing forward with a roar, leaving the 
reader breathless at the close ; for if once begun there is no stopping place. The concep- 
tion is unique and striking, and the culmination unexpected. The author is so saturated 
with the spirit of »he times of which he writes, that he merges his personality m that of the 
supposititious narrator, and the virtues and failings of his men and women are set forth in a 
fashion which is captivating from its very simplicity. It is one of his best novels.** 

— Public Opinion. 

“Readers of Mr. Weyman’s novels will h ave no hesitation in pronouncing his just pub- 
lished ‘ My Lady Rotha * in every way his greatest and most artistic production. We 
know of nothing more fit, both in conception and execution, to be classed with the immortal 
Waverleys than this his latest work. ... A story true to life and true to the times 
which Mr. Weyman has made such a careful study.” —The Advertiser, Boston, 

“ No one of Mr. Weyman’s books is better than ‘ My Lady Rotha ’ unless it be ‘Under 
the Red Robe,’ and those who have learned to like his stories of the old days when might 
made right will appreciate it thoroughly. It is a good book to read and read again.*’ 

— New York World. 

“ ... As good a tale of adventure as any one need ask ; the picture of those war- 
like times is an excellent one, full of life and color, the blare of trumpets and the flash o6 
3teel — and toward the close the description of the besieged city of Nuremberg and of th€| 
battle under Wallenstein’s entrenchments is masterly.” — Boston Traveller. 

“The loveliest and most admirable character in the story is that of a young CathoJjii girl, 
while in painting the cruelties and savage barbarities of war at that period the brush is held 
by an impartial hand. Books of adventure and romance are apt to be cheap and -jensationaV 
Mr. Weyman’s stories are worth tons of such stuff. They are thrilling, exciting, absorbing, 
interesting, and yet clear, strong, and healthy in tone, written by a gentlemaa and a man of 
sense and taste.” — Sacred Heart Review, Boston. 

“Mr. Weyman has outdone himself in this remarkable book. . . . The whole story 

is told with consummate skill. The plot is artistically devised and enrolled before the read- 
er’s eyes. The language is simple and apt, and the descriptions are graphic and terse. The 
charm of the story takes hold of the reader on the very first page, and Aolds him spell-bound 
to the very end.” — New Orleans Picayune, 


I.0NG1A1IS, GEEEN, & 00., 91-93 PITTH ATENTJE, NEW YORK. 


THE RED COCKADE. 

A NOVEL OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN, 

AUTHOR OF ‘*A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE,” “UNDER THE RED ROBE,” “ THE HOUSE OP 
THE WOLF,” ” MY LADY ROTHA,” ETC. 


With 48 Illustrations by R. Caton Woodville. Crown 8vo, 
Cloth, ornamental, $1.50. 


Deserves a place among the best historical fiction of the latter part of this century. 

» o The gradual maddening of the people by agitators, the rising of those who have re« 
venges to feed, the burnings and the r»sitrages are described in a masterly way. The attack 
©n the castle of St. Alais, the hideous death of the steward, the looting of the great building, 
Sind the escape of the young lovers — these incidents are ’told in that breathless way which 
Weyman has made familiar in other stories. It is only when one has finished the book and 
has gone back to reread certain passages that the dramatic power and the sustained passion 
©f these scenes are clearly felt.” — San Francisco Chronicle. 

‘The Red Cockade,’ a story of the French Revolution, shows, in the first place, care- 
ful study and deliberate, well-directed effort. Mr. Weyman . . , has caught the spirit 

of the times. . . . The book is brimful of romantic incidents. It absorbs one’s interest 

from the first page to the last; it depicts human character with truth, and it causes the good 
amd brave to triumph. In a word, it is real romance.” — Syracuse Post. 

** We have in this novel a powerful but not an exaggerated study of the spirit of the high 
bom and the low born which centuries of aristocratic tyranny and democratic suffering en- 
gendered in France. It is history which we read here, and not romance, but history which 
S3 so perfectly written, so veritable, that it blends with the romantic associations in which it 
is set as naturally as the history in Shakespeare’s plays blends with the poetry which vital, 
izes and glorifies it.” — Mail and Express, New York. 

** It will be scarcely more than its due to say that this will always rank among Weyman’s 
best work. In the troublous times of 1789 in France its action is laid, and with marvellous 
skill the author has delineated the most striking types of men and women who made the Rev- 
olution so terrible.” — New York World. 


** * The Red Cockade * is a novel of events, instinct with the spirit of the eighteenth cen- 
tury and full of stirring romance. The tragic period of the French Revolution forms a frame 
sn which to set the adventures of Adrien du Pont, Vicomte de Saux, and the part he plays 
in those days of peril has a full measure of dramatic interest. . . Mr. Weyman has 
evidently studied the histo^ of the revolution with a profound realization of its intense 
Sragedy.” — Detroit Free Press. 

“ The action of the story is rapid and powerful. The Vicomte’s struggle with his own 
prejudices, his unhappy position in regard to his friends, the perils he encounters, and the 
great bravery he shows in his devotion to Denise are strikingly set forth, while the historical 
background is made vivid and convincing— the frenzy caused by the fall of the Bastile, the 
attacks of the mob, the defence and strategy of the nobility, all being described with dra- 
onatic skill and verisimilitude. It is a fascinating and absorbing tale, which carnes the reader 
with it, and impresses itself upon the mind as only a novel of unusual merit and power 
can do.” — Boston Beacon. 


"The story gives a view of the times which is apart from the usual, and maiked with a 
fine study of history and of human conditions and impulse on Mr. Y ^man s part. Regard- 
ing his varied and well-chosen characters one cares only to say that they are full of interest 
and admirably portrayed. . . . It is one of the most spirited stories of the hour, and one 

Oil the most delightfully freighted with suggestion.” — Chicago Interior. 


"With so striking a character for his hero, it is not wonderful that Mr. Weyman has 
evolved a storj*- that for ingenuity of plot and felicity of treatment is equal to some of his 
best efforts. . . ‘ The Red Cockade * is one of the unmistakably strong historical ro- 

mances of the season. — Boston Herald. 

" We are greatly mistaken if the * Red Cockade * docs not take rank with me very 
Ihest book that Mr. Weyman has written.”— Scotsman. 


LOIGMANS, GREEN, & 00., 91-93 FIFTH AVE., NEW TOEK. 


SHREWSBURY. 

A ROMANCE OF THE TIME OF WILLIAM AND MARY. 

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN, 

AUTHOR OF “A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE,” “ UNDER THE RED ROBE,” * THE HOUSE OF 
THE WOLF,” “MY LADY ROTHA,” ETC. 


With 24 Illustrations by Claude A. Shepperson, Crown 8vo, 
Cloth, Ornamental, $1.50, 


“ Mr. Stanley Weyman has written a rattling: good romantic story that is in 
every way worthy of the author of the ever-delightful ‘ Gentleman of France.* ” 

—New York Sun. 

“ Considered as Active literature, the novel is an achievement worthy of high . . . 
praise. The characters are projected with admirable distinctness ; the whole story and 
Its incidents are well imagined and described ; the reader, while he cannot repress his 
contempt for the supposed narrator, is always interested in the story, and there is an 
abundance of dramatic action. Mr. Weyman has caught the spirit of the narrative 
style of the period without endeavoring, evidently, to adhere to the vocabulary and 
diction, or peculiarities of syntax. . . . Again we see that Mr. Weyman has no 
superior among living writers of romance.”— Philadelphia Press. 

“ Turning aside from mediaeval French scenes, Stanley J. Weyman takes up in 
‘ Shrewsbury ’ an English theme, and he weaves from the warp and woof of history 
and fancy a vivid, unique, close-textured and enthralling romance. . . . Mr. 
Weyman has produced in ‘ Shrewsbury ’ a novel that all admirers of his former books 
will be eager to read, and that will win for him new suffrages. The illustrations are 
drawn with skill and appreciation.”— Beacon, Boston. 

“ ‘ Shrewsbury ’ is a magnificent confirmation of Mr. Weyman’s high estate in the 
world of fiction. 

Again he has proved in this, his latest novel, that the romantic treatment is 
capable, under a masterly hand, of uniting the thrill of imagination with the dignity of 
real life. His characters are alive, human, unforgetable. His scenes are unhackneyed, 
dramatic, powerful. The action is sustained and consistent, sweeping one’s interest 
along irresistibly to a denouement at once logical and climactic. And through it all 
there glows that literary charm which makes his stories live even as those of Scott 
and Dumas live. . . . 

The whole novel is a work of genuine literary art, fully confirming the prediction 
that when the author of ‘ A Gentleman of France * once began to deal with the histor- 
ical materials of his own country he would clinch his title to be ranked among the 
greatest of romantic writers.”— Chicago Tribune. 

“ Aside from the story, which is remarkably well told, this book is of value for its 
fine pen pictures of William of Orange and his leading courtiers— a story of absorbing 
interest, but it differs materially from any of his other works. The best thing in the 
book is the sketch of Ferguson, the spy, and of the remarkable hold which he obtained 
over prominent men by means of his cunning and his malignancy. He dominates 
every scene in which he appears. Some of these scenes have rarely been excelled in 
historical fiction for intensity of interest. Those who have not read it, and who are 
fond of the romance of adventure, will find it fulfils Mr. Balfour’s recent definition of 
the ideal novel — something which makes us forget for the time all worry and care, 
and transports us to another and more picturesque age.”— San Francisco Chronicle. 

“ A most readable and entertaining story. . . . Ferguson and Smith, the plot- 
ters, the mothers of the duke and Mary the courageous, who became the wife of Price, 
all seem very real, and with the other characters and the adventures which they go 
through make up an interest-holding book which can be honestly recommended to 
every reader of fiction.”— Boston Times. 

” A romance written in the author’s best vein. The character drawing is partic- 
ularly admirable, and Richard Price, Ferguson, King William and Brown stand out in 
strong relief and with the most expressive vitality. The story is also interesting and 
contains many strong scenes, and one follows the adventures of the various characters 
with unabated interest from first page to last.” — Evening Gazette, Boston. 


LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVE., NEW YORK 


THE CASTLE INN. 

A ROMANCE. 

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN. 

AUTHOR OF “a gentleman OF FRANCE,” ‘‘UNDER THE RED ROBE,” 
“SHREWSBURY,” ETC., ETC. 


With six full-page Illustrations by Walter Appleton Clark. 
Crown 8vo, Cloth, ornamental, $ 1 .50. 


A tale which is full of old-world romance and adventure. It has a strong flavor 
of the under life in England when George the Third was young, when sign-posts 
served also as gibbets, when travel was by coach and highwaymen were many, when 
men drank deep and played high. There are plenty of stirring scenes along the way, 
plenty of treachery and fighting at cross-purposes which lead to intricate and dramatic 
situations. The heroine’s charms recall Mile, de Cocheforet in ‘ Under the Red Robe,’ 
and she proves herself a maid of spirit through all the mishaps which befall her. One 
of the most notable things about ‘ The Castle Inn ’ is the way in which Mr. Weyman 
has caught the spirit of the age, and manages to imbue his readers with its feeling,” 

—Detroit Free Press. 

“ , , . , In ‘ The Castle Inn,’ this master of romance tells a story of the time 
of George III. in the third person. ... A story of rapid action, wfith a swinging 
succession of moving incidents that keep the reader incessantly on the qui vive. It 
deals with human emotions with directness and thoughtfulness.” 

—The Press, Phila., Pa. 

“ . . . * The Castle Inn ’ . . . is so fresh and entertaining that it takes one 

back to ‘A Gentleman of France,’ and other good things this author did several years 
ago. Mr. Weyman, in looking about for an appropriate setting for his romance, very 
wisely eschews scenes and people of to-day, and chooses, instead, England a hundred 
and thirty years ago, when George III. was on her throne, and living was a far more 
picturesque business than it is now. Beautiful maidens could be kidnapped then; 
daring lovers faced pistols and swords in behalf of their sweethearts, and altogether 
the pace was a lively one. Mr. Weyman knows how to use the attractive colorings to 
the best advantage possible.”— Chicago Evening Post. 

“ . . . a piece of work which is infinitely better than anything else which he 
has accomplished. He has treated the eighteenth century, the time of the elder Pitt, 
with a grasp and a sympathy that presage a greater reputation for this novelist than 
he has enjoyed hitherto. The story itself is worth the telling, but the great thing is 
the way it is told.”— New York Sun. 

“ ... he has a firm grasp of his period in this book, and revives the atmos- 
phere of the last century in England, with its shallow graces and profound brutality, 
coherently and even with eloquence . . . it is a most interesting story, which 

should please the reader of romantic tastes and sustain the author’s reputation.” 

—New York Tribune. 

“The characters in the book are all entertaining, and many of them are droll, 
while a few, like the conscientious Mr. Fishwick, the attorney, and the cringing 
parasite, Mr. Thomasson, are, in their own way, masterpieces of character study. 
Take it all in all, ‘ The Castle Inn ’ is in many ways the best work which has yet come 
from Mr. Weyman’s pen.” — Commercial Advertiser, New York. 

“ Mr. Weyman has surpassed himself in ‘ The Castle Inn.’ From coyer to cover 
the book teems with adventure and romance, and the love episode is delicious. Julia 
will live as one of the most graceful heroines in the literature of our time. . . . 

We get an excellent idea of the doings of fashionable society in the time when GeorgC 
III. was young, and altogether the volume can be heartily recommended as the best 
thing that Weyman has done, and, in the opinion of one, at least, the most fascinating 
book of the season.”— Home Journal, New York. 


LONOMANS, GEEEN, & CO., 91-93 FITTH AVE., NEW YOEK. 


SOPHIA 

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN 

AUTHOR OF “A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE,” “UNDER THE RED ROBE,” ETC. 

With 12 Illustrations by C. Hammond. Crown 8vo, cloth, 
ornamental, $1.50. 


“ Mr. Weyman’s new romance illustrates the types and manners of fashion- 
able London society in the year 1742. In everything that means the revival of 
an historical atmosphere it is skilful, and, on the whole, just. The characters 
also are well realized. . . . ‘ Sophia ’ is a decidedly interesting novel. . . . 
The tale moves swiftly, hurrying on from the town to the heath, from hatred to 
love, from imprisonment on bread and water to diamonds . . . and a dozen 
other things. Sophia, the heroine, is a bundle of girlish foolishness and charms. 
‘Sophia,’ the book, is a bundle of more or less extraordinary episodes woven 
into a story in the most beguiling manner.” — New York Tribune, April, 1900. 

“It is a good, lively, melodramatic story of love and adventure . . . it is 
safe to say that nobody who reads the lively episode in the first chapter will 
leave the book unfinished, because there is not a moment’s break in the swift 
and dramatic narrative until the last page. . . . The dramatic sequence is 
nearly faultless.”— Tribune, Chicago. 

“ Sophia, with her mistakes, her adventures, and her final surrender; Sophia 
moving among the eighteenth century world of fashion at Vauxhall; Sophia fly- 
ing through the country roads, pursued by an adventurer, and Sophia captured 
by her husband, transport one so far from this work-a-day life that the reader 
comes back surprised to find that this prosaic world is still here after that too- 
brief excursion into the realm of fancy.” 

—New York Commercial Advertiser. 

“The gem of the book is its description of the long coach-ride made by 
Sophia to Sir Hervey’s home in Sussex, the attempt made by highwaymen to 
rob her, and her adventures at the paved ford and in the house made silent by 
smallpox, where she took refuge. Tnis section of the story is almost as breath- 
less as Smollett. ... In the general firmness of touch, and sureness of 
historic portrayal, the book deserves high praise.” — BUFFALO Express. 

“ ‘ Sophia ’ contains, in its earlier part, a series of incidents that is, we believe, 
the most ingenious yet planned by its author. . . . The adventure develops 
and grows, the tension increases with each page, to such an extent that the 
hackneyed adjective, ‘breathless,’ finds an appropriate place.” 

—New York Mail and Express. 

“ ‘ Sophia,’ his latest, is also one of his best. A delightful spirit of adventure 
hangs about the story; something interesting happens in every chapter. The 
admirable ease of style, the smooth and natural dialogue,^ the perfect adjust- 
ment of events and sequences conceal all the usual obtiusive mechanism, and 
hold the curiosity of the reader throughout the development of an excellent plot 
and genuine people.”— Public Ledger, Philadelphia, Pa. 

“Those who read Mr. Stanley J. Weyman’s ‘Castle Inn’ with delight, will 
find in his ‘ Sophia ’ an equally brilliant performance, in which they are intro- 
duced to another part of the Georgian era. . . . Mr. Wey man knows the 
eighteenth century from top to bottom, and could any time be more suitable 
for the writer of romance ? . . . There is only one way to define the subtle 
charm and distinction of this book, and that is to say that it deserves a place on 
the book-shelf beside those dainty volumes in which Mr. Austin Dobson has em- 
balmed the very spirit of the period of the hoop and the patch, the coffee-house, 
and the sedan chair. And could Mr. Stanley Weyman ask for better company 
for his books than that ? ’’—Evening Sun, New York. 

“ Contains what is probably the most ingenious and exciting situation even 
he has ever invented.”— Book Buyer, New York. 


LONGMANS, GEEEN, & 00., 91-93 PIPTH AVE., NEW TOEK 


FLOTSAM. 

THE STUDY OF A LIFE. 

By henry SETON MERRIMAN, 

AUTHOR OF “with EDGED TOOLS,” “ THE SOWERS,” ETC. 

With Frontispiece and Vignette by H. G. MASSEY. 
1 2mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25. 


“ The scene of this thoroughly interesting book is laid at the time of the great 
Indian mutiny of 1857, and the chapters devoted to that terrible episode in the history 
of English rule in India are among the most interesting in the volume, the capture of 
Delhi in particular being graphically described.”— Herald, Oneonta, N. Y. 

“ It is a powerful study.”— C incinnati Commercial Gazette. 

“ One of the strongest novels of the season.” — Boston Advertiser. 

“It is decidedly a novel worth reading.”— New England Magazine, 

. From first to last our interest in the dramatic development of the plot is 
never allowed to flag. ‘ Flotsam ’ will amply sustain the reputation which Mr. 
Merriman has won.” — Charleston News and Courier. 

“ It is a rather stirring story, dealing with breezy adventures in the far East, and 
sketching in strong outlines some very engaging phases of romance in India not down 
in Mr. Kipling’s note-books.”— Independent, New York. 

“ It is a novel of strong, direct, earnest purpose, which begins well in a literary 
sense and ends better.”— Sun, Baltimore. 

“ A brilliant gift for characterization and dramatic effect put his novels among 
the best of the season for entertainment, and, to no small extent, for instruction.” 

—Dial, Chicago. 

“ Mr. Merriman can write a good story ; he proved that in * The Sowers,’ and he 
shows it anew in this. . . . The story is a strong one and told with freshness and 

simple realism.” — Current Literature, New York. 

“ His story is remarkably well told.” — Herald, Columbia, Mo. 

“ It is a novel written with a purpose, yet it is entirely free from preaching or 
moralizing. The young man, Harry Wylam, whose career from childhood to the 
prime of manhood is described, is a bright, daring, and lovable character, who stains 
with every promise of a successful life, but whose weakness of will, and love of 
pleasure, wreck his bright hopes midway. The author shows unusual skill in dealing 
with a subject which in less discreet hands might have been an excuse for movbidity.” 

—Boston Beacon. 

“ A story of lively and romantic incident. . . . His story is remaAably well 
told.”— N ew York Sun. 

“ The story is full of vigorous action . . . and interesting.” 

— PuBrac* Opinion. 


LONGMANS, 6EEEN, & 00., 91-93 FiriH AVENUE, NEW TOEK. 


THE ARCHDEACON. 

A STORY. 

By Mrs. L. B. WALFORD, 

AUTHOR OF “the baby’s GRANDMOTHER,” “ LEDDY MARGET,” STC«t BtC 


Crown 8vo, Buckram Cloth, $1.50. 


•“The Archdeacon * is a keen, wise, charmingly told story of character, conduct, 
and love. . . . We won’t anticipate our reader’s pleasure by setting forth the 

denouement. It is enough to say that it is delightful.”— New York Tribune. 

“ It is such a pleasing narrative that it holds the reader’s attention from beginning 
to end. . . . It is a healthy, wholesome and pleasing story, without ‘problems’ 

and free from mawkish sentimentality.” — E vening Post, Chicago. 

“The story is in every way to be commended as a healthful, wholesome tale of 
modern English life. An easy, natural atmosphere pervades the whole of it.” 

—Transcript, Boston. 

** One of the pleasant English stories, always sweet and pure, and full of heart 
interest, that Mrs. Walford knows so well how to write. In this one the hero is a 
brilliant young churchman who rises high in his profession, but grows worldly and 
cold, and loses sight of the high ideals with which he set out. Love for a women who 
is strong enough to point out his failings to him, finally restores him to the simple 
faith of his youth.” — Picayune, New Orleans. 

A well-received and well-written novel.” — Plain Dealer, Cleveland, Ohio. 


LEDDY MARGET. 

By Mrs. L. B. WALFORD. 


Crown 8vo, Buckram Cloth, $1,50. 


“ • Leddy Marget ’ is a pathetic, graceful, amusing and winning book, and it will 
linger in the memory when much of the more pretentious fiction of its day is for- 
gotten.”— New York Tribune. 

‘‘■Not only charming for its simplicity and directness, but is sigtiificant for the 
Qualities which differentiate it from the stories of the majority of this lady s sisterhood. 
^ Individual and sincere, gracious and courteous, there never was a more lovable 
old gentlewoman than Leddy Marget.”— Mail and Express, New York. 

“ There is little that can be said about this story; it must be read, for its charm 
cannot be reflected in a review, its delicate atmosphere cannot be reproduced. . . . 

Therefore we wish to advise our readers to give an hour to this delightful trifle ; and 
when they have done so they will agree with us, and we hope, be duly grateful— to 
Mrs. Walford for creating Lady Marget, and to us for introducii^ them ^ her. 


Altogether this is a delightfully satisfying book. We hope it may be widely 
read.”— Living Church, Chicago. 

“ Although Mrs. Walford has written many novels of wider plan, she has written 
Qothing sweeter-”— Public Opinion, New York. 


LONGMANS: GEEEN, & 00., 91-93 FIFTH AYE., NEW YOEK. 


WAYFARING MEN. 

By EDNA LYALL, 

AUTHOR OF DONOVAN," ** WE TWO," ** DOREEN," ETC, 


Crown 8vo, cloth, ornamental, $1.50. 


. We take up Edna Lyall’s last novel . . . with high expectations, and 

we are not disappointed. Miss Bayly has acquired a wonderful insight into human nature, 
and this last production of her pen is full of the true portrayals of life. . . . The whole 

hook is a whiff of ‘ caller air ’ in these days of degenerate fiction.” 

— Commercial Advertiser, New York. 

** One of her best stories. It has all the qualities which have won her popularity in the 
past.” — Sentinel, Milwaukee. 

"A well-written and vigorous story." — Observer, New York. 

It is a strong story, thoroughly well constructed, . . . with the characters very 

skilfully handled. . . . Altogether the story is far above the ordinary, and bids fair to 

be one of the most successful of the opening season.” — Commercial, Buffalo. 

" Edna Lyall . . . has added another excellent volume to the number of her ro- 

mances. ... It sustains the reputation of the author for vigorous writing and graceful 
depicting of life, both in the peasant’s cabin and the noble’s hall.’* 

— Observer, Utica, New York. 

** Miss Lyall’s novel Is one of unflagging interest, written in that clear, virile style, with 
its gentle humor and dramatic effectiveness, that readers well know and appreciate. . . . 

On many pages of the story the writer reveals her sympathetic admiration for Ireland and 
the Irish. ‘Wayfaring Men ’ is a literary tonic to be warmly welcomed and cheerfully com- 
mended as an antidote to much of the unhealthy, morbid, and enervating fiction of the day." 

— Press, Philadelphia. 

" The author has made a pretty and interesting love-story, ... a truthful picture of 
modem stage life, and a thoroughly human story that holds the interest to the end." 

— Tribune, Chicago. 

" It Is a story that you will enjoy, because it does not start out to reform the world in less 
than five hundred pages, only to wind up by being suppressed by the government. It is a 
bright story of modern life, and it will be enjoyed by those who delighted in ‘ Donovan,* 
‘ We Two,^ and other books by this author.’’— Cincinnati Tribune. 

“A new book by Edna Lyall Is sure of a hearty welcome. ‘Wayfaring Men* will not 
disappoint any of her admirers. It has many of the characteristics of her earlier and still 
popular books. It is a story of theatrical life, with which the author shows an unusually 
extensive and sympathetic acquaintance.” — New Orleans Picayune. 

‘‘ Characterized by the same charming simplicity of style and realism that won for 
‘Donovan’ and ‘ Knight Errant’ their popularity. . . . Miss Lyall has made no attempt 

to create dramatic situations, though it is so largely a tale of stage life, but has dealt with 
the trials and struggles of an actor’s career with an insight and delicacy that are truly pleas- 
ing.” — T he Argonaut, San Francisco. 

“ Is a straightforward, interesting story. In which people and things theatrical have 
much to do. The hero is an actor, young and good, and the heroine — as Miss Lyall’s hero- 
ines are sure to be — is a real woman, winning and lovable. There is enough excitement in 
the book to please romance-lovers, and there are no problems to vex the souls of those who 
love a story for the story’s sake. It will not disappoint the large number of persons who 
have learned to look forward with impatient expectation to the publication of Miss Lyall’s 
*xiext novel.’ ‘ Wayfaring Men’ is sure of a wide and a satisfied reading.” 

— Womankind, Springfield, Ohio. 


LONGMANS, GKEEN, & 00„ 91-93 FIFTH AVH, NEW YOEK. 


HOPE THE HERMIT 

A ROMANCE OF BORROWDALE. 

By EDNA LYALL, 

AUTHOR OF “ DOREEN,” “ WAYFARING MEN,” ETC. 

Crown Svo, cloth, ornamental, $1.50. 


** When Edna Lyall wrote this book she stepped into the front rank of living novelists. 
It exemplifies the finest type of historical romance, which is, of course, the highest form of 
fictions literature. The scene of the story is one of the loveliest which could have been 
chosen, the lake region of England. . . . Her story is full of life and incident, and at 

the same time conveys lessons of high morality. . . . Altogether this is one of the 

healthiest, purest, best, and most powerful romances in the whole range of English 
literature.” — Living Church, Chicago. 

” Miss Bayly ... by careful examination of her authorities has been able to con- 
struct an uncommonly good romance of the days when brother’s hand was against brother. 
It is distinctly good work— a stirring story and in every way creditable to the author.” 

— Public Opinion, New York. 

“ The characters are well drawn, never mere puppets. There is a coherent, well- 
thought-out, and carefully developed plot, and the style is clear and straightforward. The 
story is wholesome and interesting, and much better worth reading than a good many of 
the so-called ‘ stories of adventure,’ ” — Beacon, Boston. 

“ There are few novelists of the present day whose writings are better known and liked 
than those of Edna Lyall. They are always clean, pure and wholesome, and delightful read- 
ing. The latest, ‘ Hope the Hermit,’ deals with her favorite period, the seventeenth century. 
We have the revolution, the accession of William and Mary, and the Jacobite plots, and 
among the real characters introduced are Archbishop Tillotson, Lady Temple and George 
Fox, the Quaker. . . . The story ends as all love stories should, to be perfectly satisfactory 
to the average novel reader, and ‘ Hope the Hermit ’ will find many readers, who are fond 
of a good story well told.” — Advertiser, Portland, Me. 

“ She is quite at home with her theme. , , . It is a fine historical novel, admirably 
written, and one of her best books.” — Literary World, Boston. 

”... is one of those delightful stories that have made the author very popular 
and that one can take up with the absolute certainty of finding nothing unclean or repel- 
lent. It is a clear, strong, well-designed, refreshing story, based upon scenes and events 
in the days of William and Mary of England — days when a man could hardly trust his own 
brother, and when sons were on one side in a rebellion, and the father on the other. . . , 
Many of the situations are very exciting, the characters are admirably drawn, and the whole 
telling of the story is entertaining, grateful and artistic. We regard it as quite as good as 
‘Donovan,’ and the other popular stories by the same author.” — Buffalo Commercial. 

” Miss Bayly has kept her pages clean and white. The book is preSminently suitable 
to the shelves of a circulating library, as well as to the reading-table under the family lamp. 
It not only entertains, but gives historical data in a pleasantly impressive manner . . , 

we have, notwithstanding a few extravagances, a very fascinating story, enlivened by the 
admitted license of the writer of romance.” — Home Journal, New York. 

” This latest work of Miss Bayly has all the qualities which have won her popularity in 
the past. The book should have a considerable vogue, appealing, as it does, not only to 
those who like quick action, plenty of adventure, and much picturesqueness, but also to 
those who have a cultivated literary palate.” — Dispatch, Richmond, Va. 

”... is one of the best specimens of Edna Lyall’s talent for telling a good story 
in engaging style. , . , The reader’s attention is held throughout.” 

— Press, Philadelphia. 

” There is much in this book to commend it. It is original and has great activity. 
, , . Miss Lyall possesses literary talent, and her style is clear, and, to one unfamiliar 
with her writings, this latest production will be a delightful treat. The reader will put it 
down delighted with the story, refreshed by the study of the merits and faults of its charac- 
ters, and cogitating upon the great events which, during the making of English history, 
followed quickly one upon another toward the close of the seventeenth century.” 

— Picayune, New Orleans. 


LOMMAM, GEEEN, & 00., 91-93 TIPTH AYE., NEW JOEK. 


HEART OF THE WORLD. 


A STORY OF MEXICAN ADVENTURE. 

By H. rider haggard, 

AimCOX or •‘she,’* “MONTEZUMA’S BAUGHTER,** “ THE PEOPLE OF THE MIST,** SVC. 


With 1 S full-page Illustrations by Amy Sawyer. 
12mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $ 1 . 95 . 


•• The adventures of Ignatio and his white friend will compare for strangeness with any 
that the writer has imagined. And the invention of the city and people of the heart, of the 
secret order, with its ritual and history, and the unforeseen crisis of the tale, shows that the 
quality that most distinguishes the author’s former works is still his in abundance. , . • 
The tale as a whole is so effective that we willingly overlook its improbability, and so novel 
that even those who have read all of Rider Haggard’s former works will still find something 
surprising in this.” — ^The Critic. 

“ Here are strange adventures and wonderful heroisms. The scene is laid in Mexico. 
The story rehearses the adventures of an athletic Englishman who loves and weds an 
Indian princess. There are marvelous descriptions of the ‘ City of the Heart,’ a mysteri- 
ous town hemmed in by swamps and unknown mountains.” 

— Commercial Advertiser, New York. 

••Has a rare fascination, and in using that theme Mr. Haggard has not only hit upon 
a story of peculiar charm, but he has also wrought out a story original and delightful to 
even the most jaded reader of the novel of incident.” — Advertiser, Boston. 

•• It is a fascinating tale, and the reader will not want to put the book down till he has 
read the last word.” — Picayune, New Orleans. 

•‘The lovers of Rider Haggard’s glowing works have no reason to complain of his latest 
book. . . . The story is, all in all, one of the most entertaining of the author’s whole 
list.”— T raveller, Boston. 

•* In its splendor of description, weirdness of imagery, its astonishing variety of detail, 
and the love story which blends with history and ^ntasy, the book without doubt is a 
creation distinct from previous tales. Maya, the Lady of the Heart, is an ideal character. 

• • . Interest is sustained throughout.” — Post, Chicago. 

•‘ The success of Mr. Haggard’s stories consists in the spirit of adventure which runs 
through them, in their rapid succession of incidents, in the bustle which animates their 
characters, and in the trying situations in which they are placed. • . . this last story 

• . . inUroduces his readers ... to a comparatively new field of fiction in the evolu- 
tion of an ancient Aztec tradition concerning the concealed existence of a wonderful Golden 
City. . • .” — Mail and Express, New York. 

** A thrilling story of adventure in Mexico. It is doubtful if he has surpassed in vivid 
coloring his delineation of the character of ‘ Maya.’ This work is really a notable addition 
to the great body of romance with which his name is associated.” — Press, Philadelphia. 

•* This romance is really one of the best he has given us.” — Times, Philadelphia. 

•• When the love of romance shall die in the human heart we may bid farewell to all that^ 
is best in fiction. . . . In this story we have the same reckless dash of imagination and* 

the same gorgeous profusion of barbaric scenes and startling adventure which have always 
characterized Mr. Haggard’s works.” — Independent, New York. , 

“ His latest, and ^e of his most powerful stories. It shows the same trenchant, effective 
way of dealing with Kis story ; and the same power in open, startling situations. It will 
{ive the reader some new idea of that ancient people, the Aztecs, as well as of the more mod- 
eh Mexicans. It is as strong as ^ King Solomon’s Mines.’ ” — Times, Hartford. 


LOMMAirS, GBBEtr, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AV£., HEW TOEH. 


1 


JOAN HASTE. 

A NOVEL. 

By H. rider haggard, 

author of “she,” “heart of the world,” “the people of the mist,” etc., etc. 


With 20 full-page Illustrations by F. S. Wilson. 
12mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25. 


“ It is less adventurous in theme, the tone is more quiet, and the manner more 
in keeping with the so-called realistic order of fiction than anything Mr. Haggard has 
heretofore published. ‘ Joan Haste ’ is by far the most earnest, and in many ways the 
most impressive work of Mr. Haggard’s that has yet been printed. The insight into 
character which it displays is almost invariably keen and true. Every personality in 
the story is fully alive, and individual traits of thought and action are revealed little 
by little as the narrative progresses, until they stand forth as definite and consistent 
creations.” — The Boston Beacon. 

“ All the strong and striking peculiarities that have made Mr. Haggard’s earlier 
works so deservedly popular are repeated here in a new spirit. Not only that, but 
his literary execution shows an enlarged skill and betrays the master-hand of self- 
restraint that indicate maturity of power. His conception of character is improved by 
the elimination of all crudeness and haste, and his delineations are consequently closer 
to life. One is reminded strongly of Dickens in his admirable drawing of minor char- 
acters. Mrs. Bird is such a character. . . . The illustrations of the book are nu- 
merous and strikingly ^ood. Many of the scenes are intensely dramatic, and move the 
feelings to the higher pitch. . . . Even in the little concerns of the story the wealth 
ol its imagination appears, glowing in the warmth of its unstinted creations. There is 
a splendor in his description, a weird spirit in his imagery, a marvelous variety of 
detail, and at all points a creative force that give a perpetual freshness and newness to 
the fiction to which he gives his powers. To take up one of his fascinating books is 
to finish it, and this story of ‘ Joan Haste ’ is not to be outdone by the best of them all. 
The strength, emphasis, and vigor of his style as well as of his treatment is to be 
credited to none but superior gifts and powers. . . . ‘ Joan Haste ’ will become 
the favorite of everybody.”— Boston Courier. 

“ Mr. Haggard’s new story is a sound and pleasing example of modem j^glish 
fiction ... a book worth reading. ... Its personages are many and well 
contrasted, and all reasonably human and interesting.” — New York Timec. 

“ In this pretty, pathetic story Mr. Haggard has lost none of his true art. . . . 
In every respect ‘Joan Haste’ contains masterly literary work of which Mr. Haggard 
has been deemed incapable by some of his former critics. Certainly no one will call 
his latest book weak or uninteresting, while thousands who enjoy a well-told story of 
tragic, but true love, will pronounce ‘Joan Haste’ a better piece of work than Mr. 
Haggard’s stories of adventure.” — Boston Advertiser. 

“ This story is full of startling incidents. It is intensely interesting.” ^ 

— Cleveland Gazette. ‘ 

“ The plot thickens with the growth of the story, which is one of uncommon interest 
and pathos. The book has the advantage of the original illustrations,” 

—Cleveland World. 

“*Joan Haste’ is really a good deal more than the ordinary novel of Engli^ 
country life. It is the best thing Haggard has done. There is some character sketch- 
ing in it that is equal to anything of this kind we have had recently.” 

—Courier, Lincoln, Neb. 

“ In this unwonted field he has done well. ‘Joan Haste ’ is so far ahead of his for- 
mer works that it will surprise even those who have had most confidence in his ability. 

To those who read Thomas Hardy’s ‘Tess of the D’Urbervilles * the atmosphere 
and incidents of ‘Joan Haste ’ will seem familiar. It is written alonj^ much the same 
lines, and in this particular it might be accused of a lack of originality ; but Haggard 
harcome dangerously close to beating Hardy in his own field. Hardy’s coarseness is 
missing, but Hardy’s power is excelled.”— Munsey’s Magazine. 


LONGMANS, GEEEN, & 00.. 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YOEK. 


THE WIZARD. 

By H. rider haggard,' 

AUTHOR OF “ SHE,*’ “ KING SOLOMON’S MINES,” “ JOAN HASTE,” ETC., ETC. 


With 1 9 full-page Illustrations by Charles Kerr. 
Crown Svo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25. 


** I owe an exciting, delightful evening once more to a pen— say a voice — which 
has held me a willing prisoner in a grasp of iron. It is now ten years ago, I think, 
since I gave Mr. Rider Haggard my opinion that for the rest of his life he would have 
‘She’ always with him to be compared with what might follow. That incomparabie 
romance, indeed, has never been surpassed by any living writer. Rider Haggard is 
the possessor of an imagination stronger, more vivid, more audacious than is found in 
any other writer of the time. I say this in order to introduce his latest work, ‘ The 
Wizard.’ It is only a short tale— too short — but it shows imaginative power that makes 
it worthy to follow after ‘ She.’ ” — Sir Walter Besant, in “ The Queen.” 

” The scene of this thrilling story is laid in Africa, but in many respects it is a new 
departure for the writer. . . , has never written anything more pathetic or with 

greater force than this tale of a missionary venture and a martyr’s death. The ‘ Pass- 
ing Over ’ is told with a simple beauty of language which recalls the last passages in 
the life of the martyred Bishop Hannington. As for the improbabilities, well, they are 
cleverly told, and we are not afraid to say that we rather like them ; but Haggard has 
never achieved a conception so beautiful as that of Owen, or one that he has clothed, 
with so great a semblance of lift.”— Pacific Churchman, San Francisco. 

“ ‘ The Wizard ’ is one of his most vivid and brilliant tales. Mitacles are no new 
things in the frame-work used by the writers of fiction, but no one has attempted iust 
the use of them which Haggard makes in this novel. It is so entirely new, so abso- 
lutely in line with the expressed beliefs of devout folk everywhere, that it ought to 
strike a responsive chord in the popular heart as did ‘ Ben Hur,’ and should be equally 
successful.” — Brooklyn Daily Eagle. 

” Mr. Haggard gives full play in the history of the conversion of the Son of Fire 
to his strong imagination, and he has succeeded admirably in conveying an earnest 
religious lesson, while telling one of his most exciting and entertaining stories.” 

— Beacon, Boston. 

‘‘It is to be read at one sitting, without resisting that fascination which draws you 
on from one to another critical moment of the story, to resolve some harrowing doubt 
or dilemma. . . . Hokosa, the wizard, whose art proved at first so nearly fatal to 

the messenger’s cause, and whose devilish plots resulted finally in conversion and 
Christianity, is one of Mr. Haggard’s best creations. The portrait has a vigor and 
picturesqueness comparable to that of ‘ Allan Quatermain.’ ” 

— Picayune, New Orleans. 

* It has all the spirit and movement of this popular author’s finest work.” 

—Evening Bulletin, Philadelphia. 

“ A brilliant story truly, and here and there alive with enthusiasm and fire. Mr* 
Haggard describes savage combats with rare skill, and, somehow, we revel with him 
when he shows us legion after legion of untamed children of nature fighting to the grim 
death with uncouth weapons yet with as dauntless a courage as the best trained soldiers 
of Europe. It may be wrong for him to stir up our savage instincts, but, after all, r 
healthy animalism is not to be scoffed at in any breed of men.” — New York Herald. 

“ Is as full of adventure as the most ardent admirer of tales of courage and daring 
could desire. As its title implies, it portrays a character who is an adept in witch- 
craft, cunning, and knowledge of human nature. There is a distinct religious element 
throughout the book ; indeed, but for its religious motive there would be no story.” 

— St. Louis Republican. 


LONGMANS, 6EEEN, & CO., 91-93 FUTH AYE., NEW TOEZ. 


SWALLOW. 

A STORY OF THE GREAT TREK. 

By H. rider haggard, 

AUTHOR OF “ SHE,” “KING SOLOMON’S MINES,” “ JOAN HASTE,” “ THE WIZARD,” ETC, ETC. 


With 12 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, Clothi 
Ornamental, $1.50 

“ The hand of the author of ‘ She ’ has not lost its cunningf. Indeed, we think it 
will be the verdict of most readers of ‘ Swallow ’ that, great as Conan Doyle and 
Stanley Weyman are in the field of romance, in the art of sheer, unadulterated story- 
telling, Rider Haggard is the master of them all. ‘Swallow Ms an African story, a 
tale of the Boers and Kaffirs and Zulus, and it grips the attention of the reader from 
the very beginning and holds it steadily to the end. The tale is told by an old Boer 
woman, ‘ the Vrouw Botmar,’ and it is a masterpiece of narration. . . . The finest 
portrait of all is that of the little Kaffir witch doctoress, Sihamba, who will live in the 
reader’s memory long after he has closed the book, and who is a worthy companion of 
the great Umslopogaas himself. Altogether * Swallow ’ is a remarkable romance.” 

— Charleston News. 

“ It is a slashing, dashing . . . romance of Boers and Kaffirs in South Africa that 
Rider Haggard has given his admirers under the title, ‘ Swallow.’ The title is the Kaffir 
name for the charming Boer maiden, Suzanne Botmar. . . ‘ Swallow ’ is one of 

those utterly impossible and yet altogether engrossing tales that Rider Haggard knows 
lo well how to weave. He is always at best among the kloofs and kopjes of South 
Africa, and his many admirers will be delighted to know that he has* returned to the 
field of his early successes.”— Chicago Tribune. 

“The Englishman’s long pursuit of his bride ; the manner in which she escaped 
from Swart Piet only to encounter as great perils in her wanderings, and how she 
dwelt among savages for two years, with Sihamba, the little witch doctoress and ruler 
of the Tribe of the Mountains, gives Mr. Haggard ample opportunity to display his 
ingenuity as a plot-maker, and illustrates his wonderful powers of dramatic narration. 
The story is crowded with incident leading up to the tragic encounter on the cliff 
between Ralph and Swart Piet and the torture and death of Sihamba. Lovers of the 
wild and adventurous, subtly touched with the supernatural, will find ‘Swallow’ 
luite to their liking.”— Detroit Free Press. 

“ A thrilling tale, brimming over with adventure, and full of the savage loves and 
hates and fightings of uncivilized peoples. ... In such stories of wild adventure 
Rider Haggard has no equal, and ‘ Swallow ’ will be read with the unflagging interest 
we have given to the author’s other romances.” — Picayune, New Orleans, La. 

“ It is justly considered one of the very best of this author’s productions. ... It 
is unquestionably a very entertaining story of Boer life.” — Hartford Post. 

“ A story, which once begun, must be read to the end.”— N ew York Tribune. 

“ The interest grows as one goes on, and at the close it is at least an open question 
whether he has ever done a better piece of work. ... It may safely be said that 
few who begin the story will fail to read on with growing interest to the end, and that 
most will part from the characters with genuine regret.”— Hartford Times. 

“ One of the things Rider Haggard can always contrive to do is to tell a thrilling 
tale, to keep his readers trembling on the verge of discovery or torn with anxiety until 
the very last line of the book. His happy hunting-ground is South Africa, and there is 
located ‘ Swallow,’ than which few of his romances have been better reading. We 
find it preferable, for our own part, to such an extravaganza as ‘ She,’ since it deals 
with people in whom it is possible to take a more definite interest than in savages or 
magicians. ... A thrilling and unusual story.” — Milwaukee Sentinel. 

“ Once more the African wizard has waved his enchanted wand and conjured out 
of the mysterious Dark Continent another fascinating romance. ... It is ques- 
tionable if the author has ever produced a story in all respects better than this.” 

— Philadelphia "Press. 


LONGMANS, GEEEN,& 00., 91-93 FIETH AVENUE, NEW TOEK. 


THE KING’S RIVALS. 

AM HISTORICAL NOVEL OP THE TIME OF CHARLES 


By E. N. barrow. 


With Frontispiece by W, D. StevenSo 
Crown 8vo, Cloth, OrnamentaL Price, $x.25. 


The book ought at once to take rank as one of the notable novels of the year. 
Written in a style of singular purity and elegance, it exemplifies the highest type o!f 
nistorical romance, . . There is enough of iticident never to let the reader’s 
attention flag and the plot is worked out with great skill. This book may oe 

safely brought into the family circle, and put into the hands of the young. We bespeak 
for it a large and delighted circle of readers/’—LiviNO Church, Chicago 

" This is an unusually charming story, the scenes of which are laid in the early 
colonial times, and shifts from the colonies to London and back again. The hero ^s a 
lad, picked up at sea. An unusual refinement about the boy leads people o 

believe him the scion of some aristocratic family. He goes, finally, back Co 

England to claim his rights and through some curious chance becomes the King’s 
Rival. The story is quaintly and beautifully told.”— New Orleans Picayune. 

. Many historical personages appear on the stage, among them Charles II., 
Lady Castlemaine and the Duchess of Albemarle. The plot s good, and the story is 
well worked up and interesting. At the very least he author deserves a .:aptaincy ^ 
Col. Stanley J. Weyraan’s regiment of romancers.*’— Express^Buffalo* N, Y. 


A LOVER'S REVOLT. 

A NOVEL OP THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. 

By J. W. DE forest, 

AUTHOR OF ** OVERLAND,’* " KATE BEAUMONTe** ETC., ETC. 


With Frontispiece by George Varian 
Crown 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. Price, $1.50 


The conscientious care with which he records history and native types wilV givfc 
bis books a value somewhat apart from the amusement to be got out of them.” 

— New York Times. 

** A love story with a military setting, and a very readable one at that, . . » 

he culls enough that is historically true to clothe with interest a rather strange, but 
not unreal or impossible, drama of love. The characters are all interesting, and the 
book is good enough to diffuse contentment while its 400 and more pages are under 
the eyes.”— Globe, Boston. 

“A truly delightful historical novel that deserves to rank in 'Hugh Wynne’s* 
class.” — Express, Buffalo. 

•• A thrilling story of the Revolutionary War ... the first novel in nearly a 
decade frcrni his erstwhile prolific pen. In the long silence, however, his hand has 
gained new skill, and the reader recalls for emphatic endorsement the recent praise 
of Mr. W. D. Howells for all De Forest’s work. Thank Heaven for an American 
who can no more sit in impartial judgment on his own country than he could on hi* 
own mother.” — Pilot, Boston. 


LONGMANS, GEEEN, & 00., 91-93 FIFTH AVE« NEW YOBS. 


THE CHEVALIER D’AURIAC. 

A ROMANCE. 

By S. LEVETT YEATS. 

AUTHOR OF “the HONOUR OF SAVELLI,” ETC., ETC:. 

1 2mo, cloth, ornamental, $1.25. 


** The story is full of action, it is alive from cover to cover, and is so compact with thrill- 
ing adventure that there is no room for a dull page. The chevalier tells his own story, but 
he is the most charming of egoists. He wins our sympathies from the outset by his boyish 
naivete, his downright manliness and bravery. . . . Not only has Mr. Yeats written an 

excellent tale of adventure, but he has shown a close study of character which does not bor- 
row merely from the trappings of historical actors, but which denotes a keen knowledge of 
human nature, and a shrewd insight into the workings of human motives. . . . The 

fashion of the period is kept well in mind, the style of writing has just that touch of old- 
fashioned formality which serves to veil the past from the present, and to throw the lights 
and shadows into a harmony of tone. . . . The work has literary quality of a genuine 

sort in it, which raises it above a numerous host of its fellows in kind. 

— Bookman, New York. 


“ , . . A story of Huguenot days, brim full of action that takes shape in plots, sud- 

den surprises, fierce encounters, and cunning intrigues. The author is so saturated with the 
times of which he writes that the story is realism itself. . . . The story is brilliant and 

thrilling, and whoever sits down to give it attention will reach the last page with regret.’* 

— Globe, Boston. 


“ . . . A tale of more than usual interest and of genuine literary merit. . . . 

The characters and scenes in a sense seem far removed, yet they live in our hearts and seem 
contemporaneous through the skill and philosophic treatment of the author. Those men and 
women seem akin to us ; they are flesh and blood, and are impelled by human motives as we 
are. One cannot follow the fortunes of this hero without feeling refreshed and benefited.” 

— Globe-Democrat, St. Louis. 


“A book that may be recommended to all those who appreciate a good, hearty, rollicking 
story of adventure, with lots of fierce fighting and a proper proportion of love-making. . . „ 

There is in his novel no more history than is necessary, and no tedious detail ; it is a story 
inspired by, but not slavishly following, history. . . , The book is full of incident, and 

from the first chapter to the last the action never flags. ... In the Chevalier the author 
has conceived a sympathetic character, for d’ Auriac is more human and less of a puppet than 
most heroes of historical novels, and consequently there are few readers who will not find en- 
joyment in the story of his thrilling adventures. . . . This book should be read by all 

who love a good story of adventures. There is not a dull page in it.” — New York Sun. 


“A capital story of the Dumas- Weyman order. . . . The first chapters bring one 

right into the thick of the story, and from thence on the interest is unflagging. The Cheva° 
lier himself is an admirably studied character, whose straightforwardness and simplicity, 
bravery, and impulsive and reckless chivalry, win the reader’s sympathy. D’ Auriac has 
something of the intense vitality of Dumas’s heroes, and the delightful improbabilities through 
which he passes so invincibly nave a certain human quality which renders them akin to our 
day. Mr. Levett Yeats has done better in this book than m anything else he has written.” 

— Bicayune, New Orleans. 


“The interest in the story does not lag for an instant; all is life and action. The pict- 
uresque historical setting is admirably painted, and the characters are skilfully drawn, espe- 
:ially that of the king, a true monarch, a brave soldier, and a gentleman. The Chevalier is 
the typical hero of romance, fearing nothing save a stain on his honor, and with such a hero 
there can not but be vigor and excitement in every page of the story.” 

— Mail and Express, New York. 


“ As a story of adventure, pure and simple, after the type originally seen in Dumas’s 
‘Three Musketeers,’ the book is well worthy of high praise.” — Outlook, New York. 

“ We find all the fascination of mediaeval France, which have made Mr. Weyman’s stories 
such general favorites. . . . We do not see how any intelligent reader can take it up 

without keen enjoyment” — Living Church, Chicago. 


LONGMANS, 6EEEN, & 00., 91-93 PIFTH AYE., NEW YOEK. 


THE HEART OF DENISE 

AND OTHER TALES. 

By S. LEVETT-YEATS. 

AUTHOR OF “ THE CHEVALIER d'AURIAC,” “ THE HONOUR OF SAVELLl/’ ETC. 


With Frontispiece. Crown 8yo, cioth, ornamental, $1.2 5. 


“ The author of the fascinating and brilliant story of ‘The Chevalier d’Auriac* 
knows the main roads and bypaths of the sixteenth century well, and in his latest 
essay in romance he catches the spirit of the times he portrays. With a few sugges- 
tive touches a brilliant, somewhat self-willed beauty of the court is sketched in Denise, 
whose flirtations, innocent enough upon her part, with the young but unscrupulous 
Marquis de Clermont, lead to a peremptory command on the part of the King for her 
marriage, at three hours’ notice, to Blaise de Lorgnac. . . . 

The story which gives the title to the book occupies something over a third of the 
volume. The remainder is a collection of eight short stories, most of which are some- 
what melodramatic in character, but all are brilliantly told.” 

— Chicago Tribune. 


“A good romantic story, graphically told.” 

' — New York World. 

“A brief, rapid story of those picturesque days when the Flying Squadron fluttered 
its silken sails at the gay French court of which Catherine de Medici was the ruling 
spirit— such is ‘ The Heart of Denise,’ which may be praised as more in the style of 
‘The House of the Wolf’ or ‘A Gentleman of France ’ than anything Mr. Weyman is 
writing nowadays.” — Sentinel, Milwaukee, Wis. 

“A capital love story. . . . It is a pleasant story most pleasantly told. The 
other stories in the book are of equal interest ; they are told with admirable skill and 
most excellent art.” — Saturday Evening Gazette, Boston. 

” We find more varieties of talent than we remember in his earlier novels. ‘ The 
Chevalier d’Auriac ’ and ‘The Honour of Savelli,’ ‘ The Heart of Denise ’ and ‘ The 
Captain Moratti’s Last Affair’ resemble these in the romantic use of the historical 
material of which they are composed ; the other seven display a wider range of in- 
vention in different directions. Taken as a whole, the stories here are considerably 
above the average stories of better-known writers than Mr. Yeats.” 

— Mail and Express. 

“ All of them are bright, crisp and taking — generally weird and fanciful, but told 
with an easy and fluent swing which imparts a pleasant flavor to the most inconse- 
quential of their details.” —San Francisco Chronicle. 

“There are many well-told adventures .... with a defined originality and 
manner.” — Baltimore Sun. 

“ Mr. Yeats writes well ; in his Indian tales there is distinct touch of cleverness. 
The story that gives its name to the book is Weyman all over. There is a charming, 
if shrewish, heroine, a misjudged hero, a courtly villain, and the scene is laid in the 
France of the Medicis.” — Journal, Providence, R. I. 

“The story of Denise is interesting and at times highly dramatic.” 

— St. Louis Republic. 

“ He has romance and pretty turn for dramatic episodes. ... * The Captain 
Moratti’s Last Affair ’ is a delightful tale of Southern villainy, and drama, and the 
longest story in the book, ‘The Heart of Denise, ’ justifies its length by its romantic 
and thrilling character. The Indian tales show that while Mr. Yeats is far below Mr. 
Kipling in the treatment of the material to be found among the natives, he is at any 
rate clever and readable. His vignette of landscape are drawn with special grace.” 

Y. Tribunk, 


LONGMANS, GEEEN,* 00., 91-93 PIFTH AVENUE, NEW YOEK, 


PARSON KELLY 

A NEW HISTORICAL NOVEL 

By a. E. W. mason 

AUTHOR OF “ THE COURTSHIP OF MORRICE BUCKLER 

AND 

ANDREW LANG 


With Frontispiece, Crown 8vo, Cloth, Price, $1.50 


“ ‘ Parson Kelly ’ is a begiMling variation on the old delightful theme. . . . 

rVif. I>ang has brought to the composition of this novel so much historical lore, 
so much insight into the Jacobite comedy, so much sympathy for the actors in it, 
both major and obscure, that the book is alive with true romance. The Prince 
scarcely appears, yet the air of plot and counterplot, of brave deeds and shabby 
intrigue, in which he and his house are enveloped, breathes from every page. 
Historical knowledge and imaginative power are in ‘ Parson Kelly ' blended into 
a remarkably compact and plausible unit.” — New York Tribune. 

“ We conscientiously refrain from giving the prospective reader any foretaste 
of the exceeding charm of this delightful volume. That charm is continuous and 
in crescendo from the initial to the final page, and it is impossible to conceive 
that the most exacting should have a shadow of disappointment with anything 
about the book either in its personnel, which is very beautiful, or in its literary 
material, which is exceptionally fascinating. The only ground of regret is that 
it comes to an end. It should easily rank with the most popular publications of 
the year.” — Home Journal, New York. 

“ This is an extremely clever novel ; witty, humorous, animated and pictu- 
resque, and so full of dramatic situations that it would make a fine play. . . , 

The characterization is strong, the narrative brisk, and in style and incident the 
novel possesses highly attractive qualities. A very pretty love-story runs 
through the book.” — Chronicle-Telegram, Pittsburg. 

“ The acute and rollicking Parson, with his coterie of friends, his love of ad- 
venture, his chivalry, is the most entertaining of intriguers. . . .We have a 

nearer acquaintance with the learned and eccentric Lady Mary Wortley Mon- 
tagu. We are hurried through the balls and routs of the early part of the eigh- 
teenth century, and recognize Mr. Lang’s thorough study of the times, and Mr. 
Mason’s dramatic faculty of plot construction.” — Sun, Baltimore, Md. 

“Nick Wogan is such an Irishman as Lever loved to draw, a soldier of fort- 
une, with a ready tongue and a ready sword. . . . The reader falls in love 

with him at once, and looks for his name at the beginning of each chapter, sure 
that no page can be dull upon which the name stands. But, in truth, ‘ dull ’ is 
not a word to be mentioned in connection with any portion of the book whose wit 
and charming style revives memories of the old masters of fiction. ‘ Parson 
Kelly ’ should have a great success if success is measured by real merit.” 

— New Orleans Times-Democrat. 

“ This novel holds one’s attention closely by reason of the skill with which we 
are constantly kept in the presence of some unsolved mystery. The scene is 
England in the time of George I., and the principal characters are conspirators 
in the Jacobite cause trying to place the Pretender on the throne. ... A 
fascinating character in the book is Nick Wogan, the friend of Kelly, the con- 
fident of his love-affairs and his avenger on Scrope. The plot thus barely out- 
lined is exceedingly intricate and ingenious. . . . The style is attractive, 

and displays, particularly, perhaps, in the dialogues, piquancies such as one 
often meets with from the pen of Mr. Lang.” 

— New York Commercial Advertiser. 


LONGMANS, GEEEN, & 00., 91-93 EIFTH AYE., NEW YOEK. 


SAVROLA 

A TALE OF THE REVOLUTION IN LAURANIA 

By WINSTON SPENCER CHURCHILL 

AUTHOR OF “ THE RIVER WAR : AN ACCOUNT OF THE RECONQUEST OF 
THE SOUDAN,” “ THE STORY OF THE MALAKAND 
FIELD FORCE, 1897,” ETC., ETC. 


Crown Svo, 350 Pages, $1.25 


“ The tale is brief and it is briskly told The situation celebrated is one 
from which the author has had difficulty in extracting his hero and heroine with- 
out some smirching of their skirts. But the difficulty is neatly overcome. . . . 
Altogether ‘ Savrola ’ is a very promising story.” — New York Tribune. 

“ Mr. Churchill is a powerful and vigorous writer, with a clear style and a 
dash in story-telling which shows forth in his work not less than in his corre- 
spondence and his military history. It is a welcome addition to the list of novels 
of adventure.”— New York World. 

“A dashing sort of a tale, set forth with a good deal of elan. . . . The 

story is bright and taking, the dialogue unusually witty, without being forced.” 

— Free Press, Detroit. 

“This tale of the revolt of the citizens of an imaginary republic against a 
Dictator is a spirited variant of the Zenda-royalty school. ... it has a 
good plot, a love interest, of course, and all the swiftness of action that revolu- 
tionary days conjure up in the mind.” — New York Mail and Express. 

“ The story is well written in picturesque, forcible style, and will hold the in- 
terest of its readers from the first page to the last.” — Times, New York. 

“ The book is interesting, well planned and filled with action.” 

— Post, Chicago. 

“ It is a carefully written and critical biography that will appeal to all mem- 
bers of the profession.”— Argonaut, San Francisco, Cal. 

“ A story full of action, told with force and vigor.” 

— Post, Washington, D. C. 

“ The story is in the main a stirring account of warlike movements, which 
are well handled by the author . . . another important element of the story 

is the romance which threads the whole and adds charm to all The style is 
dignified, excellent and attractive, and the interest of the story is fully sustained 
to a thrilling series of climaxes at the close. ” — Progress, Minneapolis. 

“ The story needs no factitious aids. It challenges attention by genuine 
merit. It is a clever tale, briskly told. It has strength and force and is at times 
brilliant. The action of the story takes place in an imaginary state, which is 
under the dominion of an unscrupulous dictator. The dialogue is crisp and the 
description of the revolution vivid and vigorous.” — Brooklyn Times. 

“ The narrative is distinctly unique and cleverly put together. The char- 
acters are finely pictured. . . . The interest throughout is sustained.” 

— Herald, St. Joseph, Mo. 

“ The story . . is one with plenty of ‘ go ’ and action, quite well worth 

the reading . . . The description of the battle and overthrow of the dictator 

President shows decided strength in its portrayal of a graphic and realistic 
scene.” — The American, Philadelphia, Pa. 


LONGMANS, GEEEN, & 00., 91-93 FITTH AVE., NEW YORK. 



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